Smudged Ink
by MidnightMoonWarrior
Summary: Or, five things that Brandt never told the team and one thing they made sure to tell him. They all have secrets never to be shared, he is no exception. Especially when it comes to the Cobalt mission. In short, Brandt's story of before, during and after the movie. - No pairings. Rated for cursing, because these are adults we are talking about. - AVENGERS CROSS IN CHAPTER FIVE. -
1. Testing Testing, I'm Just Suggesting

Smudged Ink (Or, Five things Brandt never told the team)

Summary: …and one thing they made sure to tell him. They all have secrets never to be shared, he is no exception. Especially when it comes to the Cobalt mission.

**Also: **These are little 'missing' scenes that I have little head canons for. Also known as 'scenes that I think should have been in the movie, but they weren't and I'm waiting for the deleted scenes'. There ya go.

**Oh And: **The title of the chapter is a lyric from a Mariana Trench song. _Haven't Had Enough _is the song. It's my muse music, deal.

**This is my second 5 + 1 story ever, so constructive criticism is encouraged, reviews are loved, and flames are used to roast marshmallows. **

Shall we? Enjoy.

* * *

"_We all have our secrets, don't we Ethan?"_

* * *

**1. **_**Testing, Testing, I'm Just Suggesting **_

He had been on his third cup of coffee, half way through his reports, and almost completely ready to yell at the person next to him to put in some goddamn headphones, because no one wanted to hear his taste in music all day, when the report had come in.

As Chief Analyst, he was only called on the highest level casesand it had taken less than a day for most of the other pencil pushers to figure that out after his transfer. Beckoned with only his name and a curled finger, he left his desk and followed the agent. All the eyes were on him, but conditioning to that had been a natural hurtle that he had overcome, they went back to other things as they exited to the hall.

Briefing was a two minute walk through the building before he was shoved into a car and sent to the airport, but it was easy to get the basics about the failed mission.

One agent dead, two waiting for instructions, and a very sensitive set of codes in the hands of a money hungry assassin.

Just another international incident waiting to happen, but then again, what else was new?

The rest of the information, specifics that he knew from experience could make or break a mission, was condensed and snugly paper clipped to the slim file that was handed to him just before the car door closed. He diligently skimmed over the information while at the same time creating a plan of action.

When he met with the higher ups, whether that be the Secretary or the president, he was going to do what he always did, demonstrate that he was a competent agent with both the talent of research and the experience that came with field work. The time of proving himself had expired a long time ago, most of the agents that had been in his position having slacked off by this point, not him. There were certain aspects that he missed about field work, the locations, the thrill that came with preventing emergencies, but he was not going to let there be any chance that he was going back.

So he worked harder, faster, and with more efficiency than anyone else. He had a dozen more wrinkles, lost two abs in his former six pack, but was worth it, the grueling hours that he subjected himself to, just as long as they didn't put him back in the lion's pit.

The king of that hell was currently incarcerated, the black mane of pride having been shaved off with the death of Julia, but he still feared the aggression and sense of revenge that prowled in the veins of every agent, especially those of the man he had failed.

Little to say, being an analyst was a line a defense, one that he would rather slit his own throat than give up. There had been therapy, both mental and physical (though it was a short amount) since it was hard to tell whether losing all confidence or the extreme case of carpal tunnel that came from spending all day at the range mindlessly shooting was worse and needed to take precedence. In the end it was the mental state they deemed more dangerous, but really they didn't care.

They wanted him back in the field.

Even now, when he was shaking hands with the Secretary (not really since the older man was there via screen, since the man was technically in Russia for a peace keeping mission) and his Board of lackeys (Directors/Senior-Senior Field Agents); even now, when he had cemented his point in stone and steel. Their eyes glazing over him like a prime piece of meat; he had been very good, some say the caliber of the best guarded secret the IMF had. Hunt was always a whisper; even in his absence no one forgot, waiting for him to stroll through the glass doors of headquarters like nothing had ever gone wrong.

They had thought his current position had been temporary, that he would rise to the absence and replace the one he had been guarding. That all he had needed was, how had they put it? _"All you need is some time off and a couple drinks". _That he was going to _"get past this Brandt" _and that it was "in_ no way, shape, or form is this your fault". _

Trust, in his case was completely missing, he had withdrawn from everyone; he knew what the men in front of him were capable, that the comments were fake and meaningless.

"_You'll be back in the field before you know it" _

The only reason he was not back with a gun in hand, running away and wrestling with other spies, was the man shown at the end of the table. The secretary had understood; a fact that he had been understandably cautious about in accepting, being surrounded by sharks you never expected one that wasn't out for blood. He had an ally, but he knew it couldn't last. The man was growing old, due to retire soon; he couldn't go back, he had to show his worth where he was.

In the present, not the past.

This was the chance, this meeting, to improve his standing with all of the big shots, not just one. The delivery of the situation was smooth and detailed; at least on his part anyway, it had been screwed up when an idiot intern had decided to intrude with coffee.

When he was done with his part, he prepared to be ushered back to his station to continue working; there was no use trying to analyze the faces of the elders, their stone faces cracked for no one, there were no emotions to learn what they thought of him.

Hoping for the best was not something he loved; he wanted plans, he wanted results. Putting his faith in something that did not exist except in a word was pointless, but it was all he had. Hope; he held the word close, perhaps the brains of the overpaid agents had finally recognized that the effective machine he was would crash and burn if he was not here.

Currently, ideas about what to do to resolve the situation were being thrown around, ranging from the harshness from some agents…

"Agents Carter and Dunn should be decommissioned and sent back to the farm, this type of failure is unacceptable…"

…to the suggestions of the more acceptable Agent Abrams…

"The communication and intelligence teams should start locating the assassin, then IMF resources moved to intercept her before intel is sold…"

The agents went back and forth, completely ignoring his presence. Which was fine with him, his part was done and he really had nothing else to offer. He had only himself and his suit coat to gather, the black fabric sliding onto his crisp shirt as he prepared to leave them alone to make a decision. They did not need him, not anymore.

"Agent Brandt, considering the facts and the situation at hand, what do you suggest?"

His neck had been forcing his head dead, in a non-threatening gesture, but it snap back up when he heard the question asked not by the secretary, but by one of the others. One of the others that thought he was nothing but an agent being wasted at a desk. The surprise on his face was hidden well, but it still swirled in his mind.

Wiping his palms together, he took a breath before addressing the half dozen men staring at him with calculating and judging glances. The possibility of this situation had not been overlooked when he had prepared a technique to deliver the information, though it was not expected. They wanted his opinion, which was something he had prepared for, but it wasn't the greatest plan.

The driver had even given him a few looks when he had been murmuring his lines, at the mention of a few names, one more above the others. He had not made eye contact, but he had not missed the eyes of the other agent on him for the rest of the trip.

One more breath, his fingers rubbed against themselves; he doubted this would go over well. Oh well.

"Due to the urgency of the situation at hand and considering the sensitivity of the lost intel, I agree that with Agent Abrams that the top priority at this moment is to identify Cobalt. If we can do that, we can intercept the inevitable meeting between him and the assassin Sabine Moreau, where we can recover the intel."

Taking a pause gave him the split second chance to scan for reactions, to which he was given nods to continue. Now would come the hard part, a few brain cells crossed themselves in place of him crossing his fingers for luck.

A breath to give him strength, he smoothly continued "My suggestion is that the remaining team members, Agent Benjamin Dunn and Agent Jane Carter, be used to infiltrate the Kremlin to gather information about the identity of Cobalt. Both have extensive training in…"

"We all know that training is not the same as experience, which Agent Dunn has little of" Another Agent limply dropped the personal file he had been skimming, dismissing his plans before the entire idea was out. Of course, this was the same agent that wanted to send both agents back to kingdom come.

Decommissioning the agents was pointless; they had made a mistake, and while it was a rather big one, that did not mean that it had to wreck the rest of their lives. They were all human, mistakes happened.

"I…" Once again, he was cut off. His jaw clenched minimally due to the control he had perfected over the years. He would not rip the head off of a senior agent, he would not…the chant helped very little.

The Agent continued, exploiting the obvious flaws in the plan which he had planned to solve if the man had let him speak. But no, the older man just had to speak with malice and cruel sarcasm in each word. "You suggest we send in two unqualified agents on a mission of such risk? With all due respect Agent Brandt, this is the Kremlin we are talking about, I personally would not even send you in if you were in your prime"

The insult, though it was truth, rolled off his shoulders in a fluid motion; it would come back later, when he was nursing a beer. But now was not the time to take it personally and ignore the glare of the 'wiser' agent.

He would like nothing more than to hit the man over the head with a steel crowbar, perhaps it would knock some sense into the man, but since he couldn't do it literally; he would just do it verbally. Muscles tensed, he stood his ground against the higher ranking man as he ignored the other members in the room and locked eyes with the Agent.

His tone was colder than before, deathly cold that he had no tolerance for rank bullshit right now; they could play those games anytime, but not now when the information was getting away as they spoke.  
"Agent Dekker, I understand your concerns, which is why I was going to **suggest **that a highly experienced agent lead the mission. That way the resources presented by Agents Dunn and Carter can be utilized in an effective manner that will be successful"

The man promptly shut up, he barely resisted grinning at the victory. All eyes were back on him again; the feeling of his ego being groomed did not last long as he was reminded what was about to come next. They were going to ask who he suggested for the position and while he had person in mind, it would not go over well. He just knew it wouldn't.

Why would it ever go well when there was so much on the line and one misstep in the wrong, or right direction depending on who you were, would send him back to his personal hell?

His suggestion was logical and factual, but crazy in theory. It would work, he was confident, but they had to believe that "It is my personal opinion that the most qualified and experienced agent to lead this mission, which will be high risk, is Agent Hunt"

The uproar, led by his favorite person in the world, was instantaneous; Agent Dekker was on his feet the moment the name left his lips. "Ethan Hunt went rogue, we cannot trust him with something of this caliber!"

They were bringing up trust now? If anyone should not be trusted, it was him. He was the one that had fucked up big time here. The very high level asset they were talking about had been lost because of him, but no one cared about that. They had trusted him with the task of keeping two people, two out of billions, safe; simple right? Right. OF course it all went wrong, but like that file would see the day of light again. Oh no, they wanted to bury his failures and burn Hunt alive for his. But that was the IMF for you, making perfect sense since its conception years ago.

Not to be baited into a yelling match, he kept his voice low and firm while again locking gazes with the man "Agent Hunt is nearby and can easily be extracted by Carter and Dunn for the mission. He is one of the highest ranking agents to exist in the IMF and is more than qualified to assist the other agents in successfully completing the mission"

Dekker snapped back "That is not the point; Agent Hunt cannot be trusted…"

"That's enough Adam" The Secretary intervened, casting one digital look upon the man that had the Agent sinking back into his chair faster than the Titanic. Then the older man looked to him "Agent Hunt is currently unavailable for the mission, although the suggestion is a valid one. Do you have other suggestions for the leader of the team?"

There was something they weren't telling him, the tension in the room having risen from something other than the hot head temper of Agent Dekker. The board members were glancing at each other quickly, a sign of discomfort and nervousness. It had something to do with Agent Hunt, but it was not his place to ask. No, it was his place to close the deal and end this discussion right now.

"After the mission is accomplished, Agent Hunt can be returned to prison or another area of the board's choice. The information currently in the hands of a known assassin, more than likely soon to be in the hands of Cobalt, takes precedence over any past events. Despite my past interactions with Agent Hunt, I believe him to be the Agent for this mission" He eyed the board, waiting for one of them to try and contradict him, to which he would rephrase the same information. The bottom line was that Hunt was perfect for the job, who else was crazy enough to infiltrate the Kremlin?

The fact was that Hunt was the best person for the job, even if he wanted nothing to do with the man. Releasing the king of the lion's pit was something that may come back to bite him in the ass, but he had to do his job first. Which meant that he had to get the best agent possible for the mission, which was the crazy man he had happened to personally scorn.

But that did not matter.

The Secretary thought for a moment, letting the logic sink in and connect to show the brilliance in the plan, before looking back to him "Agent Brandt, do you believe this plan of yours will work?"

Without hesitation, he replied with no wavering in his tone. His mental sanity had been questioned before, but now there was no question that he was fully correct and in control. "Yes sir. One hundred percent"

His reply permeated the air for a moment, before the Secretary spoke "Dekker, contact Agent Carter to deliver the mission. Abrams, make sure that Agent Brandt is on a flight to Russia within the hour"

Two resounding replies of "Yes sir" went past his ears as his eyes narrowed at the news.

"Excuse me sir?" He managed not to stammer, but he was going to Russia? He was going to the area where a newly freed Ethan Hunt was going to be roaming?! The regret of the suggestion was starting to boil up…

"If you are so firm in your belief that this plan will work, then you should be over in Russia with me to see the outcome of the mission"

The tone, along with the look he was being given gave no room for arguing. It was an order and he had to follow it. He resisted the urge to rub his temples after the screen went dark.

He was going back into the pit.

Dammit.

* * *

Reviews are loveeeee!

**Original Idea/Self Imposed Prompt/Summary for the Chapter: **He never told them that it was all his idea. His batshit crazy idea, worthy of the nonexistent but still respected 'Ethan Hunt Plan' trophy, that ended up saving the whole damn world. That somehow he had brought together the four of them, even though he had become involved on a whim of the former Secretary. He never told them that he had fought for his plan, for Ethan to get out of jail (because frankly, they would have completely screwed if another senior agent would have led the team). He'd never tell.


	2. Sea Full of Sharks

Smudged Ink (Or, Five things Brandt never told the team)

Summary: …and one thing they made sure to tell him. They all have secrets never to be shared, he is no exception. Especially when it comes to the Cobalt mission.

**Also: **These are little 'missing' scenes that I have little head canons for. Also known as 'scenes that I think should have been in the movie, but they weren't and I'm waiting for the deleted scenes' . There ya go.

**AN: MORE CURSING IN THIS ONE. Brandt's pissed and alone, we all swear when those two things happen to us. **

**All the 'secrets' might weave together in an ongoing story, but I really don't know at this point. We will see. **

**Oh And: **The title of the chapter is a lyric from 'Fly' by Nicki Minaj/Rihanna. It's my muse music, deal.

**This is my second 5 + 1 story ever, so constructive criticism is encouraged, reviews are loved, and flames are used to roast marshmallows. **

Shall we? Enjoy.

* * *

"_We all have our secrets, don't we Ethan?"_

* * *

**2. **_**Sea Full of Sharks (And they all smell blood) **_

When he had been younger, he had seen clouds and asked what they were; beyond the obvious 'they're clouds' answer. His older brother had simply told them that they were big clumps of white cotton candy, except not the sticky kind that got in your hair, that were soft as feather pillows. It had seemed a legitimate answer at the time to his sweet, innocent mind, so he accepted.

Now, he knew better.

He knew that clouds were not cotton candy and that they were not soft, that had been taught in middle school. He also knew that the dark fuckers floating in the sky were just rubbing it in his face that he had to be here, on a day in Russia with bad weather, even when the last straight week had been sunshine with temperatures in the high seventy.

The almost pitch black cousins to the clouds he had seen as a child were following him, in both a literal and figurative sense. Because he was in a bad mood and the weather had suddenly decided to bring it's worse, just as a 'welcome to Moscow asshole' welcome wagon for him.

It had even started raining as he had exited the plan and even though it was just a sprinkle, he knew that it confirmed his theory.

Everything hated him, he was sure of it.

The weather and the IMF (which included, but was not limited to the other analysts, the board, and the Secretary himself) were only the tip of the iceberg, a list that he had been angrily adding to during his flight into Russia.

The top of that list had a bolded name on the top that needed no explanation other than the letters that it was composed of; it was locked into that position by the past and no one would every dethrone it. No one needed to know who the name was, but it was pretty easy to guess if you saw his file.

Right below the list was someone that no longer existed, at least in this world, but he knew she hated him too. For ruining everything, the happiness that she had built with her husband, for letting her die. On some level, he may have considered that he was being haunted if his brain had not kicked out the idea for being illogical and therefore nonexistent.

Little to say, he was on the 'kill/maim list' for many, many, individuals and groups. Some of that came from his line of work, while most of it came from his personal screw ups. And all that crap about the past going away could not be further from the truth. "Water under the bridge?" Bullshit, the past always stayed with you no matter what. The past defined you, because without the past, how would you exist at this moment?

They all hated him, because if there was anything other than hostility in any of his relationships, he would not be back in the fucking field. Not with the rotten cotton candy fluff in the sky, he scowled at the sky before sighing in relief.

Well, the weather was clearing up; at least something was going right. It was still a bit brisk, a bit of wind here and there, but nothing that his thoroughly crumpled suit jacket wasn't prepared for. He couldn't wait to change from the suit, a luxury that he had not been given in exchange for being given a plane ticket.

Taking a cab to the rendezvous with the Secretary's men was easy enough, on some level he had hoped that thing would start to look up. The weather had cleared up after all, perhaps his fate was not completely set in stone.

Turned out that karma hate him too, since it all went downhill from there.

Damn civilian clothes.

* * *

Goddammit.

It was the Board's revenge, Dekker's smirk before he shipped off should have alerted him, that was the only think he could think of. Foolishly he had thought that he would be off the hook for field duty, that the others had finally accepted that he was an analyst now, not a full time agent.

Right. How the hell was he that stupid?

He couldn't listen to the team's radio or have cameras on them, oh no, he had to observe the mission from the field. Surrounded by civilians that he could fail, just like Julia Hunt; he did not want to be here, which made the revenge that much more sinister.

He was tired, having flown overnight over the ocean to be here when the mission was slated to take place. The others had cobbled the details without him, a fact that he had not been happy about but had accepted due to the fact that there was nothing he could have done about it.

So now he was stuck out in the Russian weather, which while it was not horrible, it was not doing any favors for his mood or tired self, watching the former team leader keep an eye on the perimeter. She blended in well with the civilians, the only difference between them being that he knew who she was and she didn't.

The atmosphere around was generally happy, the tourists having a good time; it was kind of ironic considering the orders that had come from the Kremlin and the bloody secrets it held. Even with the smiles and obnoxious people filming everything around them, something felt off.

Now he did not have the best gut feelings, his mind usually overruling them with demands of logic and factual arguments, the two battling didn't go over well. Besides, his gut feelings had been wrong before, so there was no real reason to believe in the warning bells going off in his head.

But this time seemed different…

Something bad was about to happen, he was sure of it; words worse than the loudest static came over the, someone had blown the team's cover. Some may assume that it was part of the team saying such things, but he knew. Hunt would not pull this shit. The man was crazy, but not to this level.

He moved from his place where he had been observing Agent Carter, easy enough to spot from the personnel file picture and description, as she started to move away from the looming building (as protocol called for), to where the military members entered and exited. If he was right, Hunt would come out the exit or at least in the same area, then he could get the man out.

It would not look good if the top IMF agent was captured while out on his mission plan; while he wanted to avoid the man like the plague and run far _far_ away, his reputation had to come first. He never wanted to be in this situation again. Never again. If he could somehow salvage this mess, then he could remain an analyst, they would not doubt his intentions, he could and would be at a desk.

Then the ground shook and crumbled stopping his forward march towards the Kremlin, reversing the physical orders his body had been giving was easy enough. Ignoring the screams he sprinted, not caring who saw or who stared. He may be slightly out of a shape (alright, way out of shape, he admitted to himself while his lungs screamed), but that did not mean that his survival instinct was not still intact. Hauling ass was not something that was learned nor kept in practice by going to the gym.

Still breathing heavily, he had stared as the mighty towers crumbled into rubble.

This is why he should never be back in the field; one international incident went unsolved and a bigger one that made the other one's paperwork look like tax returns was turning the world on its head. This was bad was an understatement if there ever one was.

And to top it all off, he was getting a headache.

Dammit.

* * *

Chaos did not even _begin _to cover the state of the building he was about to enter, medical teams exiting and entering with the bruised and bloodied every other moment. Everything screamed panic, but it did not faze him as he was pushed past.

Being sensitized to violence was something that came from being around it, many lost their emotions in the process, but narrowing one's focus around the colors and sounds was something that came with practice. It was a choice, one that he had made before even exiting the plane.

His business, or former profession if he reminded himself for the billionth time since being put in this position, here was his only concern. He had to remember the mission, to make sure that the mission succeeded. Since that was out of the question, now he had to collect what was his and protect it.

Slowly, he moved through the crowd while looking like another distraught victim of the disaster now plaguing Russia and the world. He was nonthreatening, keeping his head down while scanning for threats and his quarry.

Another person pushed past him, jarring his senses for a moment before he stilled to regain the search pattern his eyes had been performing. Two men came into his vision talking in low, hushed Russian. He didn't need to know the conversation to know they were different; their jackets did not completely cover the bulge of a weapon.

Backtracking was one of those skills that could be taught in the academy, but nothing really prepared you to use it until you practiced it under the gaze of people other than instructors and fellow agents. Most were average at it by the fifth go at it, but you always had to be careful.

He was not nervous as he passed the room he needed to go into, went further down the hallway and around the next corner. There happened an emergency jacket, one forgotten in the mess of what was going on, just like the ones that everyone else was wearing.

Sliding it on was a fluid motion and while the returned body heat was going to make him flush soon, it would be worth it as he helped sabotage the KGB's efforts to detain his worst friend enemy person.

The fact that he, for any reason, DID NOT WANT TO BE WHERE HE WAS, had been pushed down in favor of being professional. He'd throw his own personal tantrum later.

Not to say that roughly pushing into the angry rival agent was not satisfying, his smirk only lasted long enough to see the pair rush into the room that was holding the infamous. The escape plan was already underway, if he had a watch, he would have checked it and whistled.

Then again, Hunt was not a patient fellow.

The partner, the one that had not felt his touch yet, entered the hallway again. Now would be the time to give Hunt a fighting chance, even though it was not in his personal best interests. Oh well; if the Board was going to be assholes and put him in this situation, at least he could be the better man.

Calling to the man in Russian was easy, as was grabbing him into a small side hallway. The fact that everything around them was still in more of a panic than a honey bee hive that had been cracked open helped him in 'making friends' with the other agent. Choking him out was a little more difficult, his ribs aching from one lucky shot that did not do a ton of damage, but soon enough he was exiting the building after sliding off the jacket.

A glance up and down the street turned up no sign of the battered and bruised man, not that he expected anything less. Well, maybe on some level he expected the man to appear out of the shadows and slit his throat in revenge, which would be just considering what happened. There would be no words, just gritted teeth as he choked on his own blood. There would be no one around to help him, just a lone looker knowing that nothing could be done; then a car would run him over and smash him into the cobblestones…

He ran his hands over his face; his imagination always did run a bit wild when he was exhausted.

Hunt was out of the hands of the enemy and the others were safe, to his knowledge, perhaps now he could change out of the obnoxious street garb he had been given. That was the bottom line, nothing else needed to be thought about or considered. It was the first time in a wild that that had been the case.

Perhaps he could sleep.

But like the world could be that kind.

* * *

Reviews please!

**Original Idea/Self Imposed Prompt/Summary for the Chapter: **He never told them that he was there when shit had hit the fan to cause the next possibility of World War Three. That it was all the board's fault as some sick sadistic form of revenge for him not being in the field. He never told them he was assigned to 'check up' on Ethan, despite the fact that he was NOT happy about it. He'd never tell.


	3. Is it Clear, Is it Loud?

Smudged Ink (Or, Five things Brandt never told the team)

Summary: …and one thing they made sure to tell him. They all have secrets never to be shared, he is no exception. Especially when it comes to the Cobalt mission.

**Also: **These are little 'missing' scenes that I have little head canons for. Also known as 'scenes that I think should have been in the movie, but they weren't and I'm waiting for the deleted scenes'. There ya go.

**AN: Some curse words, because this is an adult's view of thing. And I don't believe in censorship on these types of things. Why should I behave when we have Fifty Shades of Grey out there? My stuff is not all that bad. So rating will remain where it is. – ALSO: TEAM FEELS AND BANTER! **

**All the 'secrets' might weave together in an ongoing story, but I really don't know at this point. We will see. **

**Oh And: **The title of the chapter is a lyric from "Sing Sing" by Marianas Trench. It's my muse music, deal.

**This is my second 5 + 1 story ever, so constructive criticism is encouraged, reviews are loved, and flames are used to roast marshmallows. **

Shall we? Enjoy.

* * *

"_We all have our secrets, don't we Ethan?"_

* * *

**3. Is it Clear, Is it Loud? **

It seemed as though revenge was going to be the recurring theme this year, or at least his month, in his life, because it seemed that all those times he had teased his brother about being scared of heights was coming back to bite him in the ass. Although, how he thought that that would not come back on him somehow in some way was beyond him.

He silently cursed his foolish past self for not expecting this.

Because, of course, he had to be the one to perform a straight drop down towards the impaling steel of a huge air filter. How the hell he ended up in this position, and how he had ended up with this job in the first place (as the helper turned base jumper), was perplexing but not all that surprising.

His agent side was accepting of his role, knowing that the others were busy and he was also the best choice for the job, knowing that to save the world (which was in danger, _again_) that he had to fulfill his responsibilities. His agent side was stone cold in the face of fear and was ready to take the plunge.

His logic and emotions, on the other hand, had aligned themselves and then promptly bashed the agent side's brains in. It was a smooth and rough attack that left him a messy pile of '_twenty five feet?!' _and _'the metal alloy used for the fan is strong enough to cut through the same steel, let alone human flesh' _, facts pointed out by the two sides respectfully.

On the outside, he was keeping it together, but then again that may have been the shock of seeing all his old memories of riding roller coasters (with his screaming brother beside him) all over again. His face frozen in the bored position it had been, listening to Benji ramble had been tiring especially since he was sleepy to begin with and then he had been told he'd be jumping. The only reason his face wasn't screwed up and scrunched with fear and disdain was his training, he was sure of it.

Not that that fact made the situation any better.

He sighed, still not comfortable with the idea of falling to his death, or close to it, for the sake of the world. It was selfish, he knew, but he did not care. He'd be selfish if he wanted to be, they could not take that away from him. Not like everything else.

Benji had picked up on this, the discomfort, and gave him a smile that in most cases would calm a person. But like that would work on him "And I catch you, why is that so hard to grasp?"

He stared at the man with a 'really, did you just ask that?' look that would have been clearer if there was better lighting on the plane. On another note, he was not happy to be back on a plane after where the last one had taken him. The statement that went with the look sounded something along the lines of "Why?" The word was scoffed before he explained "It's a twenty five foot drop and we're using magnets"

"Yeah" God, why did he have to be stuck talking to the technical specialist of the group? The guy was like a grown up nerd who had played video games and made his own computer as a child. If he was this excited, with a glowing in his eyes, about magnets, he'd hate to see what happened if they got their hands on the nuclear device.

Their conversation continued as it should, him questioning the science only to be met with the faithful technician. Benji was being completely solid in his predictions of success, but that was not a luxury that he could not afford. It was rash and too hopeful and he could not be that blind, not after what had happened before.

That did not stop Benji from plowing straight ahead.

If anything, the man before him was supposed to make him feel better about the jump, comfort him, although he was already way beyond that. Instead, he received a shrug of the shoulder in response, in indifference like the man did not give a fuck about his life (he probably didn't, but that was beside the point), and the statement of "I'd be more worried about the heat"

His eyes narrowed as his mind began to process the new information. It had already been over the plan a thousand times, but not like it could hurt to imagine his death another time. Another scenario, this time where he is burnt to a crisp like a barbeque chicken, great. Which reminded him, Benji had never mentioned…"And then there's that, what heat?"

Oh. Right. Giant computer capable of reaching a specific satellite and they were screwing with its cooling system. Definitely an Ethan Hunt plan, one hundred percent. On some level, he was glad there was only one of the man. So he wasn't just jumping towards a spike, not twenty five feet down, but into an oven. Why did the world hate him? Why?

He felt even worse about the situation and everything that it entailed than he had only moments ago, which must have been obvious because Benji stopped rambling and slowly said "But, I'll catch you"

It was a promise; not the first he had been given and he doubt it was the last. A collection of words wrapped up in trust that should not mean anything, they were just words. Should being the key word. His logic usually prevailed in these situations, telling him straight up that promises meant nothing in the face of steel and heat, but this time his brain was told to take a back seat.

It was a foolish thing to even think about, trust the agent in front of him who was almost a stranger, the difference being that he knew the man's name and a dozen other facts outside the file, but he wanted to. He wanted to trust again, he wanted to believe that it was all going to be fine. That kind of blind faith was not healthy, not informed like he liked to be, but perhaps now would be the time.

"Great" He murmured, the thoughts still mulling around in his head. If he kept on like this he would be distracted, something that could not happen while on the mission. On the other hand, at least it was keeping his mind off of the bloody jump he had to make.

In a situation where positives were hard to come by, at least there was one.

XxX

He was sure that the stress lines that had been prominent on his face, before this whole mission he shouldn't even be, were now carved in, like the devil had become a sculptor and decided that he was going to be his first project. The lines thick and coarse as they added ages to his formally relaxed face, tonight he was sure that a thousand more cracks would appear to branch out.

Right below the possibility of nuclear annihilation, stress was his biggest problem.

The light was dimming around him, darkness ready to fall and usher in the night, as he walked past the shiny cars and sleekly dressed into the party. He had ridden here with Benji, who was somewhere underground at this point, the man having been talking the entire time.

That was normal, though he had also seen a thousand and one looks cast in his direction; but it hadn't bothered him as he had stared out the car window. Nervousness was gone, replaced with good old fashion fear.

There were many things that he had done in his life, regrets, but at the same time there were things he had wanted to do. He did not want to die by being impaled, not tonight, not ever.

He was dressed well, but was nothing but a bug as he passed the lavish guests who were already loudly chatting, despite the somewhat early hour, in terms of parties anyway. Since he was going to be in the public view anyway, unlike Benji who was never officially there, it was his job to be the scout and locate the host.

Finding the man was rather easy; following the noise and alcohol to the one of the large room took little to no time, laying eyes on the dark man even easier as he stuck out in his white suit. The others would be arriving soon, so the confirmation was necessary and crucial. They knew he would be here, but a visual was needed because it by some small chance he was not there, they were wasting their time.

"Saturn check, confirmed visual" By the time the last word had left his mouth, he was already back in the growing pool of guests, not wanting to be noticed staring at the tycoon. Not to say many people weren't doing such, but himself being noticed doing so would add risk.

"Thank you Saturn" Jane and the sound of a revving engine, as it sliced through the speed limits and falling night, were the only things in his ear. She seemed to sound relaxed, a sight that he not seen when he and the tech had departed. Tense was still thrumming in her body then, but now it seemed that the only pattern was that of a lazy wave from the ocean.

At least one of them could get over the apprehension surrounding the events about to occur, he was glad for that. Perhaps the night would not go down as the worst in his life, the event that had the place now was hard to knock off the podium, but it was possible.

Although, if he was going to possibly die, at least he had talked to a beautiful woman before he bit it. Last time he had seem her, the dress draped and slinking down each curve had been getting into the sport's car, but he still knew she was a knockout. Not like anyone up in heaven would believe him, but whatever.

"Pleasure was all mine Venus" She was smirking, Ethan had a half grin on his face, and Benji was just rolling his eyes, probably annoyed that he was talking to Jane when he had been stone silent on the ride over. He had not said a word and now he may or may not be flirting, Benji would not be happy.

"Radio silence till arrival my ass" The tech grumbled a moment later and the muffled chuckles of the 'couple' for the night faintly came over the com.

"Focus" Hunt's voice came in to resume command a moment later, firmly imprinting the word upon them. They all knew how to follow orders and they all knew the huge amount of assets that were at stake. Also known as the world. But that did not mean that having a little fun was out of bounds.

Another grumble, then a snapped answer reeking of irritation with a hint of scorn. He also guessed, correctly he assumed, that if they were in the same room, the man would be pointing at him while sticking his tongue out at the same time. "Tell that to him!"

"Jealous Pluto?" He poked and teased, because while his heart felt colder than a tomb with a body to match, that did not mean that the entire team had to be dragged down with him. They could be loose and fluid while he was ramrod straight, it could still work that way.

Before an answer could echo, Ethan put a stop to it, which was probably the best thing for the moment. If allowed to, he and Benji probably would argue about the pointless subject until the return fire from the nuclear bomb blew them up. They would banter and bicker because really, did Benji ever shut up? And why would he back down to a man that he could easily roundhouse kick into submission. It was like being between a rock and a hard place, no one would win. And the white flag would not exist on either side.

Little to say, it was good that their mediator had no patience or time for that bullshit.

"I wasn't aware that planetary masses were supposed to be talking right now" Their leader said in a dry tone, he fought off a grin.

The attempt failed miserably, a small smirk gracing his face as he moved through the crowd, but at least this way he was no longer stiff as a board and paralyzed with fear. It would come back in time, but for now at least he could smile if he wanted to, a motion that had been impossible moments ago.

"Sorry _Jupiter_" He sneered the last word slyly, adding a bit of a tease to it. Especially if they were speaking in code, why not?

"We small planets have to have fun somehow" Benji pitched into the conversation, making a grin turn into a full blown smile. Well he did want a distraction; he assumed this counted as one.

A small, female sounding snicker was heard; Ethan was now the one rolling his eyes, he was sure of it. But the big man was probably smiling as well, one of those 'I can't believe I got stuck with these hilarious idiots' smirks, so it was all good.

"Too bad you guys can't come bungee jumping with me, without the cord of course, would've been awesome" His tone was sarcastic, snobbish, and perfect for the statement; he felt like a snarky high school girl, without the booty shorts and cellphone of course.

"We both knew I wasn't going to be there to hold your hand forever" Benji replied with what he assumed was a 'laugh turned cough' that was barely heard.

Now he rolled his eyes, just at the sheer stupidity of the conversation.

"You'll be fine Saturn" Jane reentered the conversational fray before he could snip back at the younger team member.

At least someone believed in him.

Their brilliant, yet crazy leader decided then to add his own 'encouragement' to the pile "You are in the capable hands of Pluto…"

He groaned, loudly "Don't remind me"

Ethan ignored his complaint, before continuing "…and although Pluto will probably screw up along the way, you both will be alive at the end of the night"

He could just imagine the squinting happening on Benji's end, confusion, as he scowled slightly. The fact that his eyes gazed over a familiar rival agent, who was sporting a nice bruise, did not help.

"Worst team building speech ever" She stated the obvious with obvious, but teasing, disdain.

"Seconded" Benji quipped as he ventured deeper into the ground.

Now was the time for Ethan to ignore them, which he was pretty good at, and try and make the ground he had just lost "You are all going to do fine, especially Saturn"

"So you do admit that my job is the hardest?"

Three simultaneous groaning sighs replied, especially since the question brought up the bitching he had done before they had separated. He was very adamant about not doing the mission, even though he knew he had to, which was understandable considering.

Since they were not responding with any witty comebacks, or telling him to shut up, he continued and expanded his argument "I mean, getting impaled on a fan…"

"That's not going to happen Saturn" Ethan interrupted roughly, silencing the negativity and worries with one sentence that held a firm resolve that he wished he had.

"I'll catch you" There was that promise again, the one that he had tried to fight with logic. Funny how fights like that go, since the underdog going in usually wins despite the past being stacked against it.

Before he could get a word in edgewise, something that would probably lead to him spreading his pity party around to the rest of them, further than he already had, she decided to intervene "He's right, you're going to jump and then you are going to help me get over having to seduce this fat bastard with a drink"

"I'll buy first round" While Ethan Hunt was known for be unusual, no one could deny that he was the best team leader ever.

"Woo hoo!" Benji approved, the pipes around him echoing the sound.

"We'll hold you to that" His memory may fail when he grew older, but for now it was ready to remember such an important thing. The smile was back on his face.

Ethan cut through once more, interrupting the nonverbal planning that was happening between Jane and Benji "Arrival in one minute, radio silence"

Everything dropped off, back to business.

On some level, he knew that it was part of their job, to make sure he would jump and be ready. He put them all in jeopardy by not completing his part of the mission, so they needed him to not be scared. To be relaxed. He wasn't sure that he was there, but somehow the conversation had reminded him that they needed him and that they trusted him.

Trust was one of those things that came uneasily, but he was willing to accept with some persuasion. Turned out that persuasion meant drinks, which he was fine with. He still was not completely comfortable, but at the moment he knew that if there was anyone he could trust, it was the team.

His team.

Downing a drink that had been passing him was probably not the best idea, but at least it would help his nerves.

He could do this, he had to do this, and they knew he could do it.

Perhaps those three things would remind him when he was staring straight at the steel.

Perhaps.

* * *

Reviews would be much appreciated. Keep the muse going please.

**Original Idea/Self Imposed Prompt/Summary for the Chapter: **He never told them that the **only **reason that he jumped into harm's way, and an oven for that matter, was because all three of them had reassured him and put their trust in him before it was time.


	4. Thunderbolt and Lightning

Smudged Ink (Or, Five things Brandt never told the team)

Summary: …and one thing they made sure to tell him. They all have secrets never to be shared, he is no exception. Especially when it comes to the Cobalt mission.

**Also: **These are little 'missing' scenes that I have little head canons for. Also known as 'scenes that I think should have been in the movie, but they weren't and I'm waiting for the deleted scenes'. There ya go. **The 'secrets' are being wound into an ongoing story, so make sure to read them all!**

**NOTE: **It should be obvious what is going on with the structuring of this chapter. But if not: It's supposed to be Brandt thinking and sleeping and waking up at random intervals. It's a cover for bad planning ;) but it does have its place.

**Oh And: The title of the chapter is a lyric from the brilliant and downright awesome "Bohemian Rhapsody" By Queen** – It's a very dramatic song and also a bit scattered in plot, kind of like this chapter. BRANDT DRAMATICS AT THE END~! And the scattered is everywhere, so it fits perfectly. **If I could put the entire song as the title, I would. It's that epic. **

I guess this could be considered a Brandt character study, but who knows? I'm having fun here. Why should I worry, why should I care? Right. Stop quoting Disney movies.

**KUDOS:** To those who catch the Hawkeye reference ;) – HINT, it has nothing to do with bows or arrows. Oh, and there is a Harry Potter reference. And the Twas the Night before Christmas One.

**This is my second 5 + 1 story ever, so constructive criticism is encouraged, reviews are loved, and flames are used to roast marshmallows. **

**NOTE: I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THIS CHAPTER WENT. IT STARTED INNOCENT ENOUGH. **

Shall we? Enjoy.

* * *

"_We all have our secrets, don't we Ethan?"_

* * *

_**4. Thunderbolt and Lightning (Very, Very Frightening) **_

The key to keeping one's sanity, as he had learned the hard way his first year wearing cheap suits and walking past the douches that ran the agency, was to compartmentalize.

Take whatever time you have, after a mission or not, he had told the new agents entering the same way he had all those innocent years ago, take the time and deal with it. It being the crap crowding your mind; the smell of gunpowder suffocating, the wet sound of blood dripping on drop at a time, the taste of sweat and grime as one ran for their life, the sight of bodies falling and torture beyond that of instruction, and finally, the shushed sigh of everything sliding across the skin with the water that was supposed to wash it all away. It never did, nothing dug deep enough to get it all out from under the deepest cracks.

There would always be something that remained, to haunt and hold you back through your crowning moments.

But that did not mean that the levees could not be repaired; yes, they would almost be overwhelmed the next time, but that did not mean sanity should just be forfeited. They were agents, not children; if he was going to go down, he was going to go down kicking and screaming, not calmly swept under the rug of insanity.

Hence the reason why he was currently on a plane (yes, another plane. He was getting real tired of this bullshit, really, he rather ROW back to state side than be on another fucking metal bird. 'But it's faster this way' Fuck you Ethan Hunt, he wanted to walk) trying to shift through the emotional shit that had come up from the past few days that had resulted in them saving the world.

The spectrum of the swirl currently in mind was everything from guilt to anger to gratitude; the last one being harder to box up and push down than the others. It was like a cat that knew it was going to the vet, there was no way it was getting in the carrier without being sedated. Since he knew no form of sedation for feelings, although the IMF was probably just hiding that procedure from him like everything else, he just had to deal with it.

Taking his own advice was harder than it sounded.

He had enough time, the flight would be over fifteen hours long with delays; this needed to be done now.

This is why he shoved earplugs in and ignored the random hand motions coming from an ecstatic Benji, who was of course happy about their mission, and closed his eyes. The air rushing past the plane flew away, no pun intended, as he was left to the pitch black chaos.

It had gotten harder to rebuild his walls over the years, but still it had to be done.

* * *

Life, as he had once heard someone describe it, was a blank canvas. Now whether this person in question was a hipster with an art degree, who ranted about simplicity while fiddling with his Mac laptop, is still a fact unknown to this day, but that was irrelevant. It would neither be confirmed nor denied, as was the policy of his alphabet agency; the informant had been neutralized anyway.

The gospel of the stretch black 'v' neck had been simple; matching the philosophy of those people, but really complications came when a sane mind thought about it in a critical manor. In theory, every move was a splash of paint. Colors, as well as choices, varied by person, while some things were always the same in every piece of fabric, constants that were unmovable in the fact of surroundings, gender, or if you happened to like spicy food or not.

A dot for example, was the start, one's birth; everything branched out from it. Strokes (of brush, charcoal, pastel, spray paint, sharpie, and the occasional finger) both large and small represented events and spider webs for similarities to others; they were connections that made conversation starters and friendship builders. It was complete chaos, overlapping in patterns and shades of the rainbow. In it all though, there was a thing that really stuck out. No matter what part caught the eye, it could be traced back to that one dot.

The whole visual story was connected. It all made sense in the splatters, the unique piece of art like a painted fingerprint, it explained everything. The genesis, of how two points from the maternal and paternal pallets mixed to create a new stretch of canvas waiting to be filled, the present, the thick slabs and thin streaks interpreting each and every second, and the future in a way, by the small pencil marks made in planning, due to be colored in or erased and replaced. It was all there, just waiting.

That background being said, he agreed with the idea to an extent. He was no expert, no connoisseur of art or the surrounding forms of expression, so there was only so far the life of a person could be compared to art for him, but it made sense. There was a logical part to it, the argument the younger person had presented, so his lack of artistic creativity did not hinder him much in understanding it.

When asked, the preacher of said theory portrayed himself, his painting, as the artistic equivalent of a phoenix, fiery and full of passion for what he believed. The reds, yellows, and oranges melding and forming a sweet storm that commanded the attention of all that passed. His response to this had been that obviously that characterization of human fire had burned some things other than feathers, mainly brain cells. Little to say, the preacher was less than holy in regarding his opinion.

He personally did not take the form of an animal, of anything remotely normal because that would something that went right in his life. Oh no, he was nothing. Perhaps the leftovers of the force of nature, the fucked up ruins of a hurricane; green foliage to represent the trees that he had climbed to escape the bullies, purplish blue for the berries he had dipped into his mother's pie to get, and then a mix of the two for his eyes. The two orbs, the gateway into the soul, were his best features, if the numerous agents that had tried to seduce him were anything to go by. Pleasantries would be crowed into one corner, everything as an adult overpowering it and forcing it back. The biggest things needed the most space, the most attention, because those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it.

Remembrance did no such thing for him, avoidance of repeating; it just made his skin crawl as it all came back in a force that not even a bottle of jack could keep back.

The line that represented his line of work, he imagined, was bold. A thick slash across the parchment that his skin embodied, barely blurred and so dark that even the ink seemed to not exist. Mainly pitch black, with splatters of red for obvious reasons, it was splintered and moved to other paintings. An example being that it went across the wall to a canvas entitled 'Goofy Spastic Genius', for obliviously obvious reasons; it connected to those who were, had been, and were going to be in his life. Other lines went onto the ceiling of the place that housed all the metaphoric art pieces. A few lines crawled and clung to the floor, one such line being that of his time before being an analyst, since his rock bottom has his fondest memories of such connections.

Some masterpieces hit hard times and then just stopped; ghosts of their former glory as the supply of oiled art supplies gave out, the lines stretching, getting smaller and smaller until one day, they just melted into the white. The cause for the most part was time, the end of a hundred page document, the last lines having been finished; the brushes washed out for the next color, the next portrait. Dust gathered, the dried piece covered in a sheet and stored in the back. They were forgotten; the lines that connected them to others ripped apart, leaving slips of colors that went nowhere. Like there had never been something, or someone there. It all just disappeared.

He wished it could be like that.

That his lines had been shattered, that he had been left with nothing but loose ends that would hang off of him for the rest of his life. Instead there were chains, with balls of black attached to the end; a real life, metaphoric, fucked up dark cloud that followed him around.

Each spliced line wasn't all that bad, don't get him wrong; each one was like a deflated lead balloon, the string strung to his ankle. Rifting against the pavement as he walked, his dragging feet almost making progress with the sound of grating metal following.

The lines that remained vibrant, instead of the shades of grey that crept, still existed and still flowed; though some stung with betrayal and failure. One such was a pair of lines intertwined, or had been. They had barely had any contact with him, just a few moments.

The leather of the plane seat came back, telling him that he was not free floating like he thought, as he gripped the arms to the point of ruin. The screams echoed from their cages; helpless, shredded, furious, and hell bent.

He was not weak, not worthless; their weights, their shackles, were the heaviest of all.

The levees had to be repaired or it would all fall down.

All because of a few fucking lines.

Dammit.

* * *

Fabric barely slid over his skin of his hand, the one that had fallen limply to the side after gripping the chair. While his initial reaction was to neutralize the possible threat, assume a defensive position, and secure his team; he remained relaxed.

It was just the hostess, the fabric consistent with her cheap uniform.

He was safe.

With the boring thought that Benji was asking for an extra pack of peanuts, unconsciousness came back quickly. Perhaps this time he would stay under.

* * *

He had left them alone, the lines, because as he had learned from the generations before him: if you can't fix the problem, ignore it. Because he couldn't fucking deal with them; cut off one head and five million grow back.

Ignorance was not bliss, he knew this for a fact, but like something like logic would stop him from shoving it into his own personal Pandora's Box.

It was still puzzling; anger always would be there and the guilt had been resolved for now, but gratitude? Where the fuck did that come from?

Out of everything in his exhausted arsenal of emotions, why would gratitude come to the surface, why would he feel the need to say the simplest apology other than silence?

Thank you.

Another mystery of the universe for him to solve, lovely.

* * *

As he was told later in a random blurb from the talkative tech himself, Benji did ask for extra peanuts.

So did Ethan, with a side of scotch.

Jane just had water.

And he slept.

* * *

His eyes shot open, and since an idea of explanation did not dawn upon his like divine light despite the darkness shrouding the plane, he did not automatically shut them again, and he saw them. He almost did not notice one of the ear plugs falling out, how the yellow foam fell into his lap, one of the creases that his wrinkled pants had made and thankfully did not fall into the floor, as his gaze swept the plane and locked on to the first subject it saw.

The youngest was curled in a chair, drool dripping from the mouth as soft snores came from the otherwise silent mouth. A blanket draped hazard over him, the fabric almost twisted tight enough to cut off a blood supply, seemed to be the only thing to enhance the sight. The image of Benji actually quite for once almost distracted him.

Jane was lazily looking out the window, daydreaming most likely instead of trying to figure herself out like he was. Her hair, like her body, was relaxed and completely open to attack. All defenses were gone, just pure water. Motionless, yet smooth in any motion that may occur.

It was almost peaceful, the scene of complete and utter _nothing_. No past, no pain, just innocence that was still a gift and curse that came to the younger agents. There was nothing dragged behind them, no cases that crawled inside your heart and died, leaving the death and destruction always a part of a memory.

He wished he could join them, just for a minute and be in placebo effect that came from just watching the small twitches the tech gave off and the steady breathing of the bobcat. It was a pipe dream, but nothing about dreams could be crushed, not his dreams.

He wouldn't let them die, not when everything else had.

The moment would be preserved, brought back when the darkness came back to confuse and disorient. Like a postcard from his missing happiness, giving him just a bit of comfort before the horrors overcame.

The moment was perfect, everything he used to have.

Not when everything would come back

"Everything alright Brandt?"

It all flared; the dim lighting suddenly becoming the sun like flash bomb to blind him. The constriction of his muscles, in the classic fight or flight instinct, was expected but not rationalized. It was all too much.

Logic did not exist; not to the reason why gratitude was beginning to fade with the scene of his other agents, a sight that had never happened before in his life, not before the chains and certainly not after.

No, there was just his superior.

His first and biggest failure.

The sight was not taken in, was not recorded as he tried desperately to stave off a panic that was long overdue. There was only so long things could be pushed down, put under pressure, and then shaken; eventually the cork would pop.

But not today.

Some mumbled, fake half dozed answer served as a reply, one that neither of them believed. He did not wait for more questions; forgetting the ear plug, he just turned his head and stared at the back of another seat.

Heart racing and sweat sliding down his shirt, he went back to the chaos.

There had to be something to lead him to the truth.

Gratitude.

Thank you.

For them.

Why?

* * *

Fuzzy.

That was the only word that came to mind, well other that _dammit, _to describe his consciousness as it came back. The plane jolted again, rather roughly. He was not worried, because a) he had his seatbelt on b) if it came to the plane nose diving, he was fucked anyway.

Trying to consider the rocking of his seat, and the stupid plane for that matter, as a soothing motion, he tried to drift back to thoughts and sleep. Perhaps then he could dream…

They hit another patch of harsh air.

Cursing the fact that instant teleportation had not been invented yet, and that he was on a fucking plane, he grimaced and squeezed his eyes tighter together.

Fucking storm.

* * *

Thank you was one of those things he was capable of, but never really practiced. Then again, the phrase was one that no one every stood in the mirror and said over and over. It just came out.

A squeak or a gurgle as a baby, a smile on the face as everyone cooed and awed in your chubby cheeks, not knowing what you were saying; thank you began then, even before you knew what it meant.

Then as a child, it was high pitch perhaps with a lisp or a slur, just an evolution of the baby form. Small ringlets of hair coming off the head as you hid behind your mother's leg, a shy smile as you thanked the tall stranger who had given you a lollypop.

The years began to pile on and it wasn't just an involuntary, spur of the moment thing. Thank you was planned, required, expected; it was such an innocent thing anymore. When you got to the adult stage of metamorphosis period called life, it almost meant nothing in the face of the sheer number of times it had to be said.

It was still nice to hear, it was still vocal pleasing to reach the ears; but really only that calming pleasure of receiving thanks came if honesty and sincerity was involved. Those two things were hard to come by in the modern society known as civilized today.

Hence the reason why he was skeptical about gratitude being a part of his emotional detox for the day; then again his screwed up emotions had not failed him thus far, so something had to be up.

There had been plenty of times he had wished to say something, a lot of things anyway, where he wanted to say 'thank you'. After the many times he had fucked up, even though it was not his fault sometimes. After the very few times someone had been able to make him laugh, even if it was just one chuckle or smile.

It had been a very long time since he had felt the need to give anything back to anyone, especially a thank you. Of course it had to be on this mission, out of all the other assignments.

The consequences of this mission was going to kill him, he was sure of it.

* * *

He awoke to rustling, messily planed movements that did not put him on edge. Although at the moment, in his muddled confusion of barely being awake, he doubt something so quite could wake him up.

There was no gunfire, no screaming, no orders; so unless something, or someone, had taken out the rest of the team in a ninja style attack, which he highly doubted, there was nothing to fear. Yes, his logic had returned, hopefully it was here to stay.

His eyes remained shut, but that did not mean his ears were.

"Benji what are you doing?" It was a questioning tone; one that he knew could only come from their leader.

"I was going to wake Will up, we're about to land"

Sincerity.

Honesty.

Since when did he deserve that?

"Poor guy, he only fell asleep a couple hours ago" He almost felt the fleeting feeling of a caress on his face, tender and loving as the feminine voice that had spoken. It was sweet and if he did not know better from his training about proximity, he would of thought Jane was right next to him.

"Let him sleep, you know we are going to have to wait half an hour before they clear the plane" Ethan was right; just another reason why he hated 'business' trips, they took forever to wash your hands of and be done with.

"Yeah, yeah, check for bugs and what not. Is it just me or does Brandt look like he has black holes under his eyes? " Great, he was now being stared at. Thank you Benji, he internally sighed, for compared the bags under my eyes to galactic masses.

They didn't look that bad did they?

"Ethan, you should talk to the agency, he's being overworked"

Great, they did. They had to, for that much fake concern to be placed upon him. Jane was a woman, so that whole maternal thing had to kick in somewhere, but the guys were doing it too.

Dammit.

He couldn't wake up now, they'd know he was listening and that would be awkward. Even more so than his suggestion to the board. Even though it had saved the word did not mean it had been a fun moment.

"You don't know that Jane…" Why the hell was Benji trying to stick up for the douchebags that made up the IMF board? Every agent knew those guys were assholes. The tech then proceeded to finish his sentence. "…the nightmares might just be getting to him"

There was a moment of silence as they all mulled over the idea of him being weak and therefore susceptible to the nightmares that came with the territory. Truth was that he had been having them for years, but never had he let them affect his work or more importantly, his outward appearance. The only time that had happened was the field mission he had been sent on right after his failure in Croatia; nothing about that had been good.

"It's more than that" The solemn statement spoke volumes, so was the wise ways of a certain human embodiment of the IMF as a whole. He knew it was true too, but then again he had never doubted the talents of Agent Hunt.

"Then tell them to lay off of him" She pushed; he knew that would never happen. Since he had refused to go back to the field, his work load had been piled high; partially due to choice, because he wanted to prove he was the best, but partially due to the fact that Dekker and his asshole posse did not like him.

"Yeah, send him on a vacation or something. Better yet, send us all. You can buy us those drinks you promised in the Caribbean" He would admit this, Benji did have his finer moments, this being one of them. Images of drink umbrellas and light other than that from an office lamp filled his head. He almost smiled. Almost.

"I was going to talk to the Board anyway about Brandt, I'll make sure to mention your idea"

Wait. What?

Ethan was going to talk to the Board; he had PLANNED to go to the board, about him? If anything else, other than the fact that his scorned enemy leader person was going to speak to a group of very powerful people about him, existed that could scared the living hell out of him, he'd really like to see it.

Due to the impending panic shit storm, he almost did not hear the _comforting _order from his commanding officer given for his benefit "Now let the man sleep, we'll wake him when the stairs go down"

God he was screwed, fucking screwed seven ways to Sunday.

"Can I wake him?"

Screwed-screwed-dammit.

"Benji"

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit ….

"Well can I?"

He barely heard the laughter, the chuckles. Like they would know what was going on, his freak out in motion.

"Of course"

So he was feeling gratitude and Ethan was going to gut him in front of the IMF equivalent of the Ministry of Magic. It was so nice for the world to throw him problems from both sides of the spectrum.

Dammit.

_Dammit. _

* * *

On a side note, that was about as irrelevant as the fact that he had actually listened to a member of the hipster following, the cranberry juice that they had given him to drink wasn't all that bad.

Most times it was like they took a cup of sugar, then added water, and colored it red. Not kidding, another reason why he hated the idea of man being in the air. He wanted juice, not sugar water dammit.

It had actually tasted like real cranberries, sour and tart instead of like something that should be given to a child. He was an adult; if he wanted that much high fructuous corn syrup in one go, he would have an IV (of a mixture of honey, sugar, chocolate, sugar, donut glaze, and did he mention sugar?) in his arm at the moment.

Very little of the blessed, pure nectar, actually made its way down his throat, due to the fact that his hands were shaking. The movements were erratic, but minimal due to the fact that the other's looks in his direction were becoming less subtle and more concerned by the moment.

The drink had been shoved into his hands by Jane, while Ethan observed stealthily behind reports, and Benji remarked that he 'looked like an older Casper', so he better drink up. _Thank god_ for teammates his shriveled sense of humor had remarked.

The eye blinked about once every five seconds, or so was the international average, which was really disconcerting to his impending panic attack considering that it seemed every time he saw the back of his eyelids, the concern caused lines in his three fellow agent's faces seemed to become more imbedded. This meant he was still shaking, still not concealing his emotions, and his reactions for that matter, like he had been taught.

Dammit.

The cup, made of cheap china plastic, was crunched as the plane wheels bumped before sliding across the asphalt runway. The shell of what used to hold liquid fell into the floor, but his concern was not on that.

One tap on the floor, from a high heel; Jane was halfway out of her chair, even though the flying death trap had not completely stopped yet. She was breaking the rules, not a big surprise for most agents, for him, big surprise. What was he doing now?

One look at his twitching and trembling digits answered that question loud and clear.

Get it together Brandt.

The self-imposed wellness chant did not do its usual wonders, damming him more.

On the shrinking (well let's face it, it was nonexistent at this point. Like a fucking Friday night where a night out consisted of a fruity virgin drink and everyone else getting laid. What was the point of being positive when you couldn't get drunk and everyone but you was getting the good version of getting screwed over?) bright side, it turned out that his dress shirt did not show spilled juice all that much.

Perhaps he could get it out this time; instead of screaming in frustration, getting all his permanently stained crap together in a pile, setting said pile on fire, before drinking and skipping around it like a madman without sanity. Not that his sanity had ever been confirmed of existing, no that had not been part of the recruiting process.

Rumor was that it was in Croatia, having settled down after the search for it had been given up. Then it had been hiding in the shadows and evading capture by the skin of its teeth; but now it was relaxed and content in its new life…unlike its former host.

But at least the stains would come out.

* * *

(**This next part, I don't even KNOW. Alright? I JUST DON'T KNOW *flails*) **

* * *

Twas the day of his hell, when all through the plane

Not an agent was stirring, not even Jane

The bags were being unloaded, he knew this for sure

But the intentions of the workers, he doubted were pure

He sat still as the pilot had said, worried for his shit

While wondering why he could faintly hear the employees saying that their boss was a son of a bitch

Agent Hunt with his files and Benji bitching (about the delay)

He wondered if his hand would ever stop twitching

When out of his eye, he saw a sight

A burly man, throwing a suitcase with all his might

Like that wasn't enough, he heard a thud

Any valuables or technology were surely duds.

A sigh on his lips, a groan on his tongue

He knew a complaint would be ill sung

When, to his surprise, he looked back to see

Agents staring at him, three

With his attempt to be calm failed

His thought, his plan B, was to bail

Hunt had a pen in hand and with an amused look deviously decided to click it

His fate was sealed, his planned escaped failed…._damn it_

The man was evil, he knew it

But predictably, he had blew it

_Again. _

* * *

Gratitude was one of those things that was always just there.

A side dish to the home cooked dinner prepared by mom, a sticker stuck to that new toy from the grandparents, the batman Band-Aid that your big sibling applied after beating the hell out of the bullies; it was just something that you grew up with.

Whether it was a request ("Now what do you say?") or a tradition ("Thank you god for this food…"), gratitude was just there. It was always a statement, a set of words, but rather just a smile. Some were shy, some bold, but you could always tell the personal, nonverbal, response to an action.

And those were just the common forms of expression; there were a thousand ways to express it that was plaguing him. A laugh, hummed content, and a hug were next in line; but just because something exists, does not mean that a reason existed for it.

Hence the reason he was about to accept the fact that the gratitude he was feeling was just some chemical imbalance and there was nothing he had to do. No smiles, no thank yous, nothing. It had appeared out of fucking nowhere, so it was alright to assume that it meant nothing.

Right?

The horrors of awaited him were almost enough to get him off the subject, but alas, his brain has a death grip on it. So it was tucked away in a corner as he surveyed his surroundings.

Bouncing off the blacktop were rays of the midday sun, the temperature somewhat cool considering it seemed like the bright orb in the sky was magnified by a thousand. Something was going to go wrong; the signs were beginning to show themselves, beyond the hell that had been the plane.

Sign one: They, for once, had not lost his bag. Sure, it had been smashed, but that was okay. Usually they scattered it to kingdom come, even though he was sure there was some procedure to prevent this for government officials, but for once they had not.

Frankly, that scared him even more, because if anything went right for him at the airport, something was seriously out of whack with the force. Grabbing his case from the unapologetic hands of the lowly paid terminal monkey, he resisted the urge to fall in line with the others.

He had been the last one off the plane, getting stuck behind the exhausted attendant, but they were only a few strides away. They were in a V position, a loose one because giving off a team image was dangerous, and he could just fall in behind Ethan….The idea of being the caboose had never excited him more.

But that wasn't the best idea, so he just kept his distance; even when Benji peeked over his shoulder and winked at him. The hand motion that came with the body language was something between a 'come hither' and a traffic director, but he still couldn't.

They had only been on one mission together; he did not belong with their crowd. They were not of the same breed; they were field agents, damn good ones, and he was the misplaced analyst. He hung on to the title for dear life, when everything else seemed to be a black hole eating him alive.

The center of that being gratitude.

His eyebrows scrunched.

Dammit.

Pickup wasn't for another three hours, due to the agency being fucked up since someone had jumped the gun and initiated ghost protocol; he wondered which asshole was paying for that suggestion, so maybe he had time to figure it out.

Maybe.

* * *

He was such a mess, his mind in a million directions trying to solve ONE problem, one query, that he almost didn't notice. It was like five different teams of attorneys going head to head, all as ruthless and scary as the last, but he still heard the sigh that came from his mouth on instinct.

At least his mind agreed on one thing, as Benji rolled his eyes across the room and muttered the same thing he was…

Turned out that someone had tried to take their 'medical' marijuana onto a plane.

"Dumbass"

* * *

"_What are you grateful for Will?" _

It seemed that his subconscious, desperate for answers and frankly tired of the 'it'll come sometimes or another' shit, had taken the form of his mother's verbal pattern. He should be disturbed by the fact that his mom's voice was in his head, but maybe the lack of the reaction was due to lack of sleep.

A tradition of hers, to ask him (and his elder brother) as she tucked them in, that simple question; to recount some memories of the day, or week if she had been working the night shift, and just say thank you to the dark room.

Years had passed since he had been there, but perhaps it would help him get to the bottom of this emotion problem and relieve some of the stress. Then perhaps he would stop ignoring Benji's attempts to signal him across the vast lobby of the airport, which he was sure Jane was about to join in on, and actually acknowledge the people who had made sure he hadn't been murdered in Russia.

His eyes dipped closed, oh.

It wasn't like Ethan had directed him through the murky waters, even though they had been enemies on opposite ends of the Escalade. Leaving him would have been the smart choice, the decision, though inhuman in ways, was acceptable and encouraged by the agency. Water sucked until the nerves burst and nothing but a small stream of blood came out with the fleeting bubbles.

But he was dry, alive, safe; all because a stranger had helped him in the moment when the only though in his mind was not that of panic, but death. Escape was possible, but his odds, as calculated while they fell into the deep blue abyss, had not been good. He was alive because of that, because Ethan had taken control.

Was gratitude required for that?

It wasn't like Jane had slid against tile to anchor him to solid ground, when his guilt and emotions had taken over, when he had made the _stupid _decision of putting himself against thin air to save a man that he owed. Repaying the debt, he realized during the moment after leaping forward but before he knew someone was going to catch him, was useless and foolish if they both fell to a mirrored death.

She was not required to do anything, the only loyalty she had showed, other than to the agency, had been to revenge. It was consuming, but silent rage that quelled in her for the death of her fellow agent. Nothing other than that seemed to keep her going. Yet the fabric had been grabbed, a move he suspected, had kept him from falling over the side with Hunt. The momentum, as he had figured later, would have taken them both over for sure. But she had been there.

Was gratitude required for that?

It wasn't like Benji had actually trusted his instincts, despite the fact he was nervous about being in the field, and shot the man who had had a choke hold on him. It had been a compromising situation, one that shamed him even to think about, one that he had thought would be the end. One small twitch and his neck bones would be shattered, one moment later and his life wouldn't matter because the world was going to end. One agent who feared close range shots, as the man had stressed in detail as he blabbered.

A recipe for disaster, but instead of a bomb there was a bang. What a blessed sound; never had he been so happy. Benji could have frozen, leading to blood, missed, leaving to a giant hole in the wrong person, or simple just bolted. It was all understandable scenarios and plausible ones. The man wasn't the greatest sharpshooter, but it was a job well done.

Was gratitude required for that?

It wasn't like he had paced the hospital tiles after the aftershocks of adrenaline had worn off, waiting for news; trying to keep the group together, because somehow he had ended up as the leader in the absence of the crazy. They had waited for news, only to see, not a doctor, not a nurse, but their dumb ass agent limping out of the intensive care unit. They couldn't keep him there he had said, so they had departed for the airport.

Jane had got full maternal mode and started lecturing, which Ethan did not even try to back talk to because he knew he would get killed if he did so, with Benji driving and quipping in little snide comments. He had watched, amazed that they were alive. He had been read to bury his own bones, but somehow they had pulled it off. Karma must be kind today.

Was gratitude required for that?

It wasn't like they were trying to include him, right now, like they were some big happy family heading over to Grandma's house for Christmas dinner. Ethan being the big brother, Benji the little, Jane the sophisticated cousin, and him…the obscure little speck who no one knew; but they still were trying to include them in their group of misfits.

He was wanted.

Gratitude.

Oh.

* * *

_Was it fucking required? _

* * *

You are currently connection to The Brain.

X

Search "Gratitude"

Search Results: 5,000

Definition: The quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness.

X

New Search –

Query: When to use gratitude?

Search Results: 1

Answer: Never. Gratitude towards someone means connections, connections lead to failure, death, and guilt. Avoid gratitude.

X

Control F – Find: "Background of answer"

Found: "Pain"

X

Query: "Why?"

Results: 1

Found: "Because"

X

Query: "Why is it a bad thing?"

Results: 0

X

Voice Recognition Software Engaged

Sorry, but "Stupid system" is not in the listed set of commands, please try again.

Exiting Voice Recognition Software

X

Query: What do I do?

X

*()*#*(*(*( &(*#(&(T*

SYSTEM ERROR

*^($)) ((*# ^$ )$(*

X

If you screen is blue, or flashing warning signs, we of 'The Brain' system highly suggest that you shut down and then restart your system. If this does not take case of the problem, please call you psychologist for further help.

Have a nice day.

X

Do you really wish to shut down?

X

System shutting down.

* * *

It seemed that he had used his allotted number of answers for the day, because his brain was blocking any and all requests for him to proceed to step two. He had identified what the feeling had been and why it had been in his emotional system, but now he just had to figure out if he needed to say it.

It was only two words, or one if he wanted to be very impersonal, but would it be a good idea.

Most times, in the area of spying he was familiar with, you did not apologize and you most certainly did not say thank you. For anything. You just kicked ass and took names, not to mentioned intel, that was it.

He was capable of it, but…

Pushing off his impending system crash, his new disposable phone rang. The only reason he had it was because he was (Had been? Was going to be? Whatever) Chief Analyst; in his job description it stated specifically, meaning it was underlined AND bolded, that he was to have a phone on him at all times. He had so much restricted information in his head that he needed to a) be able to be contacted at all times and b) be tacked at all times so that if he decided to 'switch sides' he could be taken out immediately.

Not that that had not been possible the last few days, well actually it had been but fuck them he had been SAVING THE WORLD, but he doubted that the person on the other end of that call would be very happy.

Putting on his very best bored and irritated voice, used to mimic an irritated passenger because there was no way the caller would not hear the background noise, he ignored the other's curious gazes and answered "Hello?"

"Agent Brandt"

Dekker.

_Dammit. _

"Sir"

He tried not to sound angry, but he just knew that the asshole was going to cuss him out for not only blowing up the Kremlin (not his fault), killing the former Secretary (still not his fault), but not keeping in contact with the agency, even though it had been disavowed for most of the time. It didn't matter that he, with the team's help, had saved the world, that his idea of bringing Ethan Hunt out of prison turned out to be the move that SAVED them all. None of it matter, because Dekker was not a very positive person.

"Pickup is waiting outside, under the name Smith"

What? Hold up. There was a distinctive lack of yelling occurring in his ear. And frankly, the silence was even scarier than any lecture like yelling match could ever be. Dekker was above him in rank, but that did not mean that the ego was not the same for all the power hungry bottom feeders.

Besides, pickup for them was not supposed to for another hour and a half…

"Did you know they posted new pictures of _Saturn_ online?"

He didn't even bother to look up at the loudly spoken question; Benji was circling his position as the pregnant pause because even more knocked up. The tech must have gotten bored, not like he could actually be…

"No, but I read they were _worried _about the telescope that took them. Wasn't it like _in distress_ or something?"

The bobcat was there too, somewhere close, hiding in the shrouds of travelers with her partner in crime; which would have only added more confusion if he had actually stopped to think about it.

Instead he went back to the phone.

"Could you repeat that sir?" The most respectful, go fuck yourself, combination voice that he had was used as he tried to block out the white noise of the airport.

There was a low sigh of irritation before a clear, direct, and douche bagish order "Get your ass back to DC"

But that meant that he would be leaving them, and the stupid fucking emotional baggage they were bringing up, while they had to wait. Life wasn't fair and he didn't exactly feel bad but it didn't feel good.

"But sir…"

"Now Brandt"

Next thing he heard was a dial tone.

Stupid Dekker.

Dammit.

"I bet its fine, they just need to talk to the boys up in the space station and ask if _anything is wrong._" Way back, oh about a week ago, the voice would have freaked him out, but now it just made him groan in despair.

Was he even allowed to tell them? Should he tell them the other thing?

His capacity for top priorities was about to be overloaded and the system crash for real. There would be no coming back from that.

Focus, his teeth gritted.

He had received an order and since he had no good reason for disobeying it, other than his dysfunctional family spread of emotions having a feud like reunion (sanity sitting in the corner by it's trying not to get involved. Attempt failing by the minute), so he had to follow it.

"Hey mate, what do you think of _Saturn_?"

They were getting desperate.

Acknowledgement on some level might call them off, or it might just make them be like octopi and wrap their tentacles around him and not let him go. He really hoped it was the first.

"I think that _Saturn _is _fine, _but the satellite has to leave orbit, it's being _recalled_ from what I heard"

He did not wait for Benji to drop the code and ask what the fuck he was talking about, so he took a few steps. Clinging to his bag, he tried to not let the other big thing on his mind creep up on him.

Focus on the mission, getting back to being an analyst.

Forget Gratitude.

"Let's hope not, it was doing a really good job!"

Dammit Benji.

He looked back, to the three scattered but connected faces that were in the same general area.

_Here's your chance! _It was screamed on the inside to alert him that if there was any time to say it, to express gratitude, now was it. It would seem normal, but they would understand.

At least he hoped so. He waited for it to come, the words to exit his mouth. A fake reply could not even be mouthed back, no shit about how he wished for it too, despite the past.

He had not said thank you in years, now was not the time to start.

Eyes open, lips sewed shut; he exited the airport and his, perhaps only and last, chance.

He had missed out, by choice.

But what else was new?

* * *

Reviews?

I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE ALL OF THAT CAME FROM. I'M SERIOUS, NO FUCKING IDEA. IF YOU HATE IT I UNDERSTAND!

**- Original Idea/Self Imposed Prompt/Summary for the Chapter: **He never told them thank you. For everything or anything. He never tells them in an honest sense for what could have occurred on the Cobalt cluster fuck...errr, mission, and what did occur. On some level it's unspoken, but after Ethan saved him from drowning, Jane grabbed his pants leg, and Benji shot Winstrom (and not him), he never tells them or smiles. And he never tells them that Dekker is the reason he leaves without saying goodbye.


	5. Put My Guns in The Ground

Smudged Ink (Or, Five things Brandt never told the team)

Summary: …and one thing they made sure to tell him. They all have secrets never to be shared, he is no exception. Especially when it comes to the Cobalt mission.

**These** **are little 'missing' scenes that I have little headcanons for**. Also known as 'scenes that I think should have been in the movie, but they weren't and I'm waiting for the deleted scenes'. There ya go. **These 'secrets' are being wound into an ongoing story, so make sure to read them all!**

**Oh And: The title of the chapter is a lyric from 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' originally by Bob Dylan but I fell in love with the cover done by Benji (from The Voice). **The song gave me Brandt feels right away and I think it perfectly describes the fact that he's being beaten down and ready to give up. **- I originally wanted to title this "Brandt doesn't give a fuck" but I thought that would not be appropriate. **

I guess this could be considered a Brandt character study, but who knows? I'm having fun here. Why should I worry, why should I care? Right. Stop quoting Disney movies.

**KUDOS: **To anyone who sees one of the most well known literary phrases, as well as noticed the Suits television show reference. Hint - It has to do with the assistant. ALSO - Crossover hints, for those who pick it up. But you know what, Renner brought this on himself. I would of put in Brandt being part of a set of five (what is that called anyway?! Quintuplets?) but that would've been a little weird. Twin? That'll work. :) ( My headcanon is that Brandt is the older, but for this I thought that it would be better for him to be the younger)

**NOTE: **There is some making shit off the top the of my head in this, especially concerning Brandt's past. But it could work. JUST ROLL WITH IT!

**This is my second 5 + 1 story ever, so constructive criticism is encouraged, reviews are loved, and flames are used to roast marshmallows. **How these chapters get so long is BEYOND me. I just write and it all comes out. So sorry for the long sitting of reading!

Shall we? Enjoy.

* * *

"_We all have our secrets, don't we Ethan?"_

* * *

_**5. Put My Guns in The Ground (I Can't Shoot Them Anymore) **_

Sleep.

What was sleep?

It seemed a fleeting notion now, a forgotten thing that had been eclipsed by work. Agents were suppose to get time off after a mission, especially one of such importance as his had been, time to recuperate and nurse the wounds received. His team was probably nursing drinks in Hawaii, or some other tropical conditions where the only blood was in bloody marys and gunshots were replaced with fireworks, right about now, but since he was not considered a field agent, he did not enjoy the same privilege.

He had been out in the field, saving the world like the Board had wanted him to do, but they considered him an analyst. How ironic, if only it had been this way at the start of this whole clusterfuck that had miraculously turned out okay. He was not a field agent, he did not deserve that honor, no, his official occupation was that of a analyst. He had just been in the wrong place at the right time, assisting the field agents in saving the world, nothing more than that. No credit, no observation for his needs, but it's not like he had ever gotten that.

Five hours was all he seemed to get anymore, miserable time not due to nightmares but really just the fact that his brain could barely function on that much time, not by choice, but by necessity. If he overslept, like he had the first time on the new schedule, unaware of what was going on concerning him, he would have agents knocking on his door.

He almost wished he was back in Russia.

At least then, the lack of sleep would be due to a mission and he would be woken up not by emotionless agents, but instead Benji who would, in a sing song voice, tell him to get his ass out of bed. Then Jane would be waiting with a cup of coffee and a smile, while Ethan prepared to brief them on their midnight mission.

Almost.

As it turned out, Dekker had become the new Secretary of the IMF, a fact that he hated even now, after weeks of working even further under the the man that he had before.

Sure, the man was of high enough rank for the position, and had enough experience in the field that according to regulations made him worthy to serve in the highest position of the agency, but rank meant nothing in the face of what it meant to actually serve in the position of power. Collaboration, creativity, and calm understanding was what was required to be a successful Secretary; all qualities that the newest leader, Agent Adam Dekker lacked.

This showed in the very first day, when connections for supplies and intel were being reconfirmed with allies and informants after the giant setback that had been the Ghost Protocol Executive Order. It had been a pair of scissors, severing years of lines in the form of satellites, intel, and crossroads; it was difficult to put it all back together strand by strand. The process was made no easier by the constant berating and verbal whipping that came from their 'leader' to go faster and stop being so sloppy. They were highly trained agents from ivy league schools with enough degrees to cover them from head to toe and the student debts to prove that they were all real, not to mentioned most of them, himself included, had some form of field experience under their belts; but apparently none of that matter, because in the eyes of a certain man in charge, they were children who need a parent there to constantly tell them the right thing to do and how to do it.

It brought an entirely new, aggressive tone to the meaning of 'my way or the highway'. No one had been fired yet, though many had been threatened with pink slips, himself included due to the fact that he had stood up for a newer analyst, newly hired just before the Cobalt situation had happened. The kid was good at her job, but he barely could stand up to the constant pressure brought on by the massive and aggressive ego that existed long before the power went to his head, let alone now.

Little to say the entire agency, from the field agents to the analysts to the techies and all the way down to the interns, finally had something to agree on. The nickname SD, standing for Secretary Dick soon became code for the _favorite _person in the agency. Never had there been a moment when the entire agency rallied together for one cause, so it was fitting that they united against not one event or one thing, but one person.

Perhaps there was a point to hate being stronger than love.

While rebuilding crossroads and connections, new ones were formed as the agency rebuilt itself, one of which happened not for the sake of the country, but for the sake of their sanity. The personal secretary to Dekker was the first line of defense, an early warning system prepared to warn the rest of the staff when he was going to make his rounds. That way they were aware of the passive aggressive storm that was coming and were able to adhere to the ridiculous procedures that had been put in place by his majesty himself.

For the most part, it was working. There was still pink slips threatened and yelling along the lines of their incompetence, but the events were becoming more tolerable. Behind closed doors, there were plans discussed to dethrone the new Secretary, but he knew that there was no support to the ideas. There was no one ballsy enough, with enough backbone, to risk their job as well as the entire group behind the plan and win. The person could not cave and could not show any fear in the face of Dekker, and no one such as that existed.

He could not do it and currently he was the 'leader' of the group within the agency, put into that position due to his position as Chief Analyst as well as the fact that he was one of the biggest sources of Dekker's anger. It must be impressive to the others that he had not quit or lost it yet, so they put him as the unofficial leader. Really the only person above him in terms of the 'resistance' (as some of the geeks in the tech department had put it), that was trusted more than him was Agent Abrams, who they all agreed would have been better for the Secretary position that Dekker. Abrams knew little of what was going on, although their field was intelligence so he probably knew more than he was letting on, but there was going to be no help from him in terms of backbone. The man had it, they all knew that, but he chose not to use it. Somehow the man was a pacifist, in a field where violence was common, accepted, and encouraged.

Little to say, his work was more of a hell than it had ever been and there was no signs of it getting better anytime soon.

Or ever for that matter.

XxX

It was one of those days, one that did not require descriptive adjectives of the gloomy and dark variety to express the level of suckage that the current twenty four hours had sunk to, although like that would stop poets and writers from starting their tales with the words 'It was a dark and stormy night', when he received the letter.

Wordlessly, it was handed to him; there was no hint of the inanimate object's meaning

or reason of existence nor anything from her to suggest that the letter was finally his pink slip, that Dekker had finally found something to get rid of him over.

He had been in the middle of his third dark cloud, the one floating above his head, each one bringing a more foul attitude each than the last, and arm's deep in paperwork when it had been handed to him personally by the flamboyant red head that was Donna.

She was almost as tall as he was, although that probably had something do with the fact that she wore five inch heels on a daily basis, with sharp green eyes. Sleek, smooth, and dramatic was the look she strived for, and little to say, she pulled it off.

Personal deliveries by her were not common; personal mail that everyone did not want Dekker to know about was being delivered to the office being sent by one of Donna's lackeys instead of herself personally. This fact did not help his attempt to push down the fear of what the envelope may hold.

Nor did the name that appeared on white paper, addressed to him from a Rhea U. Titan. He doubted such a person existed, although it was interesting that they were still using the code names, which should of been burned right after the mission. Why they were contacting him, was the strangest part of the letter, even past the name which was an obvious sign (at least to him) that it was his old team.

Titan, which he imagined stood for Ethan as the big boss himself, was the largest moon of Saturn. After which came Rhea, probably the writer of the letter, Jane, which was the second largest moon. The U probably stood for Uranus...Benji was such a smartass. But then again, he guessed that if they had to use codenames, perhaps it was best that they used something that he would recognize. At the same time, it was bit childish, but Agents had to have fun somehow.

He was tempted to smile, just a little, at the fact that he had not been forgotten even if the words contained in the envelope were that of death and destruction, even if it was in the form of an simple letter with a silly name disguising it but then he remembered that she was there.

"Thank you" Be polite, be professional, it was one of the most important things to maintain when being in the office environment. Especially when concerning the secretarial agents, who could keep you organized or accidentally 'lose' your tax returns, depending on the color of their mood rings.

While was true that she was on their side, she out of anyone hated Dekker more than anyone, especially when he sent her down every morning to get his coffee from a certain place even though he passed it on his way into work, that did not mean that she wouldn't sell him out if he wasn't nice. Their work industry was cutthroat and it wasn't her looks that got her as the permanent assistant to the Secretary of the IMF. She was loyal, but she was also looking out for herself, one reason that she was loved, respected, and feared in the workplace.

All there was in return was a sly smile, before she quickly turned and sauntered down the hall from which she came, probably back into the belly of the beast and hellish dragon that awaited.

He to some was the white knight ( or rather balding, due to the stress coming from his work context) in shining armor that would stand up to and slay the beast, perhaps even replacing him as the head of the IMF, but those were unrealistic and foolish thoughts. That would get him nowhere, really it would more than likely leave him open to fatal attacks rather than sheild him.

He put them from his mind and instead focused on the letter in hand, which could contain something more sinister than what he was facing here. Perhaps it was a cry for help, many other ideas of that sort passed through his head; no one could blame him for being a pessimist in what he had, was to, and would experience in his life.

The letter could be a fake, an enemy of his faking the clever use of code to send a threat from the shadows that he would read, even though most of the threat mail was sent immediately to the shredders. Or worse, it could be from someone that was not hidden, not scared to show their face or send him anthrax in the form of a letter, someone like the man he had failed.

The untarnished, seemingly inconspicuous and innocent letter scratched ever so slightly against his fingertips as he smoothed over the swirling ink, which handwrote the sender's name and return address (more than likely a post office box) in a neat and sophisticated script that could belong only to Jane, before turning it over to see the seal.

It was nothing special; no red wax melted and pressed into at the last moment before it hardened, not even a seal symbol, but instead a shiny sticker. The glossy paper sparkled as a simple smiley face smirked at him with pure bliss, it was something that had not been planned to be put with the ensemble that was the letter, but instead put there at the last moment by someone, it had been snuck in just before mailing. If the rumors he had heard were true, all techies had a thing for stickers.

Doing one last search for an emergency, a person, anything that would force him to set down the letter and let it be lost in the piles of papers that had been his neat desk area, he tried to ignore the curiosity arising in him.

Why would they send him a letter? Why now, a month after their mission of disastrously successful proportions, why ever? It's not like they cared.

After one last rotation of his tired shoulders, weary eyes seeing nothing that could be used as an excuse, a reason to run away from this, as he had done in the past, he turned back to the bleached material before him.

It wasn't like they were here in person, peering over the dull grey cubicle barrier watching for his response nor were they likely to ever see him again, so what did one letter matter? He had work to do, to ensure that he was not decommissioned and thrown out like trash, he did not have time to waste like this, second guessing intentions that might not even exist. Perhaps it was just a really, _really_, early birthday card.

Right.

One huff of air later, complemented by the rubbing of his temples and imbedded wrinkles, his thumb slid under the thin edge of the circular sticker. He would have used his letter opener, if it had not been stolen by the bastard who had the office a few rows over; he was plotting his revenge, but all he had now was a nail and flesh. It was not be neat, but it would get the job done, though he really wished he did not have to trash the sticker though. Oh well.

While ignoring the fact that he was ripping and slicing the sticker apart, which could easily be paralleled to the face of a certain tech that had placed it there, the white edge of the envelope folded up to reveal a professional letterhead. Considering the person behind the letter, he had expected nothing less.

If he had any thoughts that there were good intentions behind the letter before now, those thoughts were now shrinking; although, he conceded to himself, why would someone send such a stiff letter to a friend, instead of one scribbled on notebook paper, that would breathe comfort and friendliness. Right, he was not their friend. Why he expected such a set of emotions, even from a written message was beyond it was because he craved it, connections beyond that of colleagues and crossroads associated only with work.

Carefully held between his forefinger and his thumb, pinched just enough for traction against the barely rough paper, the single sheet slid out of it's like minded cocoon into his palm. The envelope was set close by, because while he would rather shred it, it was important to keep both parts of the delivery together before he destroyed them, just another habit learned from being an analyst, before he turned his attention to the part that actually contained had been scraps of intel so far, the sender's "name", but there had been nothing to truly tell him the intentions of his former team.

No powder had tumbled out onto the desk (like it had for the deceased senators), nor did it line the edges of the paper, so that was at least one worry that was given relief and grief that he was spared; but what fear released from it's clutches was soon replaced, there was still plenty of pain that could be caused.

There was only so many words that could fit onto one sheet of paper, even if the handwriting was neat and microscopic, but he knew from experience that it took little, if not a single sound, to break a person and stomp on their soul. His past, he blamed for the fact that he had not opened the letter yet, not insecurity that should belong to a teenage girl, not him a full grown agent.

There were few things that would actually break him, that would push him over the edge to the abyss that no one came back for, until this point he had fought it off but it was entirely possible that something was written that would finally chop of his last head and end his ninth life; all of those things could fit on a sheet of paper, as most things of that variety could.

All measurements of time were irrelevant and unknown, to him at least; the fact of how long it took him to open a simple, unremarkable letter to the rare passerbyer, is still unknown to this day What did remain was the truth that whatever amount of time it took to peel back the opening to that envelope, which seemed more like diamond encrusted steel that thin refined wood, was nothing compared to the moments, each which seemed like a lifetime, that it took him to scan the contents of the letter.

None of the phrases predetermined to be his achilles heel were part of the seemingly innocent letter. Nothing of the sort was contained, nothing he had expected and feared.

No, it was far worse.

XxX

Innocence was rare in the field of national intelligence; usually it was obliterated from the interns on their first day of training and any sources had lost it long before talking to the agency.

But the letter, no, the _invitation_, that was sitting before him, that he had received was filled with it, more than he had seen in any one single thing in years. It was casual in language and short in length, simplistic and to the point compared to the intelligence reports that he was just about to drown in; and yet it had a sense of friendliness that he rarely received.

He had friends, at the office, but it was the nature of their business not to become too attached, so conversations were kept short and less than meaningful. One could die the next day and life still had to go one; the less tears shed the more lives could be saved, as the last Secretary had put it. Less is more; perhaps it was not truth, but it was to them, him.

The thing he had opened was clinging to him though, to the point where the paper was just lying on his desk instead of chucked into the shredder a few feet away like everything else was, the words running through his head. The message was simple, but complicating his thought process seemed like second nature to it.

It was a rolling front of possibilities for the future, endless and so tempting, determined to break down his walls; it was reined in by a smooth and precise swirl that was an ink pen. It had probably only taken a few moments, five minutes at most to write, but it was taking him so long...

The question that came upon him was only second to the elephant in his office, one that was starting to knock over papers and was eyeing his lunch; the second was this: if it was taking him this long to comprehend that he had _received _the invitation to attend a final meeting with the others, how the hell was he going to decide if he was going to go or not?!

He groaned before putting in a request to go home early, which he knew Dekker would deny, like with everything else.

The elephant, that had graciously been sent to him by his former team, promptly made itself known with it's trumpet like trunk, just as the piles of files, photos, and paper clips fell and turned his office into a disaster zone of papers both underlined and blacked out.

_Dammit. _

His head hurt.

xXx

_Dear Saturn, _

_Seattle, tomorrow night at eight. Due to Pluto's urging, Jupiter is buying. _

_Can't wait to see you back in orbit. _

_- Venus (And Company) _

XxX

Surprising as it may sound, his request for time off, whether it be a moment of peace, an extra hour of sleep, or a day to possibly fly across the country for a meeting he may or not be attending, was denied.

The last crushing No had come personally as he had left the office. Dekker had been walking towards the darkly tinted sport car that he called his own and had decided to make it clear to him what was going to happen tomorrow.

Meaning that the bastard very quickly ran over the schedule and his role in it, which meant that he had to be there. Despite the fact that it was the weekend. Despite the fact that he was overdue for some time off. Despite the fucking fact that _someone _had leaked the information to the man and that the meeting happened to be tomorrow night.

Power was flaunted over him as Dekker, who was only a few feet taller than him, towered over and invaded his set confidence levels. It was obvious that the new position was doing nothing for the man's egomaniac tendencies.

"See you at work tommorow, Will" He resisted the urge to drag the man across the parking lot and throw him into the trunk of his fancy car, he wondered how long it would take security to find him locked in there.

No one called him Will, no one other than a few select people in the world, his personal collection of acquaintances that knew him well enough to be allowed to call him something that personal.

One was his brother, who called him Willy just to piss him off; although in hindsight, that was really just a sibling thing and it had been so satisfying to come up with his own nickname. Little to say, his brother quit the Willy crap a few times after being called 'Eastwood'. Because really, who wanted to be compared to an action star that they technically were not supposed to know about (their mother forbidding PG-13 and R rated movies)? That was just asking for trouble.

Another was Benji, because while he had been uncomfortable with it at first, who could say no to Benji? Really, he would swear in open court that the man could con the president out of the oval office desk if given the chance and the ability to use that smile. The man was like the evil, hyperactive little brother her had never had, complete with sass and smart, a really scary combination.

In all, Dekker did not fall into any sort of category of people allowed to call him by his first name. His self control, perfected over the years, almost cracked like the car window would have had he smashed the man's head into it, but he kept it cool, somehow.

He did not ground out a reply, he just sharply nodded while glaring a hole through the son of a bitch's head. In that moment he knew, as he watched the sneer come onto the man's face, filled with satisfaction of ruling over another being, that he did not give a flying fuck.

The last ounces of professionalism and decency left in him went into restraining himself from cursing the man from high heaven to where he belonged, while his large brain, that the agency valued very highly, thought of every damning word and curse that it had ever heard. Old Italian sayings, Russian to be muttered under the breath, German slang, and Indian chants, said to be used in ceremonies involving hell and the journey to it; it all swirled around like an angry tornado ready to throw a mobile home across the state. Considering that most of his life had been in intelligence, and that he had been in the trenches before, with soldiers and civilians that were not as scrubbed clean as he had to be, there was a lot to be said.

But really, it could all be summed up in two malicious filled words. He had known them since he was seven, having learned them from another boy at school; they were used for the first time the same day, when he used them on his brother. It was his first, of many to come, occurrence in using, 'bad words' as his mother called them when she stuck him the corner, 'tsking' all the way there.

They were not the highest grade of filth that could be used, but actually they were simply perfect, simplistic, for the moment. Sometimes it was't was what was said, but how it was said. And really, he could probably say something along the lines of 'baby' or love' right now and make it sound threatening and angry.

Little to say, the two words stood for his state of mind and they worked.

_Screw him_, he openly thought while flipping off the man's back before squealing tires left him alone in the parking lot. Climbing into his own car, it only took him a moment to come to two conclusions. One about Dekker, and the other about what his actions for the night were going to be.

Little to say, they both made him feel a bit better.

XxX

Bastard.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

This was his mantra as he boarded the plane, completely disobeying orders, coupled with smirk and the determined attitude that had been born in him; it could not be burned out of him by anything because some things never die.

He was a level headed person, but everyone has that one moment in their lives where they learn to stand up for themselves. It sticks with you, that one instance that reminds you everyday that you are not a fucking doormat and there are certain things that you do have to take. You always have a choice.

The first of this kind, for him, had been when he had stepped between his parents, one of which was drunk while the other was bleeding from her head. It had not been the first time, but dammit he made sure it was the last. Perhaps it was the fact that his brother had been gone and that he was the man of the house, because the son of a bitch that fathered him would never be it, but after night after nights and years of hearing the screams and wearing the bruises, it all just clicked into place. His father had five inches and a good fifty pounds on him, not to say that was all muscle, but that did not stop him from fighting and taking out the trash, hurling the bastard out into the street, into the cold where he belonged.

It lasted for about a week, the new situation that was warmth and safety in their household for once in their goddamn lives, before he came back armed with baseball bat and a booze on the breath. This time he wasn't alone, his brother was there; beating their old man's ass and reminding him that he was not welcomed anymore. Not now and not ever. If he remembered correctly, they piled all of his things into the backyard and burned it all to hell, drinking just so they could look back and say how fucking ironic the situation was. Boy, did they have some good laughs about that...

The lesson from that point in time lasted for a lifetime, even though his brother was somewhere classified, buried in almost as much red tape as he was. It had been years since they had last met, attending their mother's funeral with almost identical suits and shades; there had been a faint chuckle over the one that had come from that. Twins, even then; he had worn a watch, while the other had on a grin - seeing the other had been the only good thing about that day.

He almost wished that the other man was here, sitting in the seat across from him, fiddling with something or shooting a rubber band at him. His brother was only a few minutes older, although those moments seemed like years in terms of protective nature; being so similar it was interesting how he did well with numbers while his brother did real well being a smartass, they knew who got the humor and who got the brains of the gene pool.

That way, if he was there, then he would crack some jokes and say aloud what he was thinking in his head. Really there was only one who knew anything about him, who had permission, who had earned the right to know everything, who'd going to hell and back for him; though it was ironic since the other already knew most anything he was going to say before he opened his mouth.

"_You're doing the right thing" _

His brother, as he should, always had a tendency to say what he was thinking and reassure him against the plaguing insecurities. He didn't even have to say anything and no matter how well he hid it, or tried to, he would just be asked what was wrong. He missed his security blanket and his best friend; neither of which were on the plane with him right now telling him what he needed to hear.

"_There's no reason to be scared of dickless, you're better than that" _

He was an adult, now was not the time to be full of regret on something he could not control. The reason they were out of contact was not the lack of want or need, but instead orders to cut off contact with the family, even the only person left in his world that fell into that category.

Bottom line was that he was on his own and he had to deal with the fact that he was going to be landing in a different kind of Washington right about the time he was supposed to be picked up by his IMF babysitter/shuttle agents.

Oh, and there was the fact that he was going to be in the/on the same city/area/coast as the team that he had left in an airport eight weeks ago with little to no explanation for them and a lot of confusion on his part. He did not even know if he wanted to go to the reunion type thing, but for once in his life he had not thought something through and just gotten on the goddamn plane with nothing but what was in his pockets and the clothes on his back because he was angry. He had only gotten on the plane so he could prove that he could make his own decisions, that he was not owned. While he might of been wrong on some of those accounts, it did not matter at this point in time. He was four hours into a five and a half our trip and he would be landing very soon; he was here, whether it was a good or bad decision. What was done was done, a fact he accepted.

His only regret was that he couldn't be there to see the look on Dekker's face when everything clicked into place and he knew that someone had finally ignored his piss poor excuse for orders.

Boy, would that be a sight to see.

XxX

This was a bad idea.

Now, don't get him wrong; landing in Seattle brought on a glorious feeling knowing that his cellphone, which had been left in his abandoned car, at the airport, was ringing off the hook with an angry Secretary on the other end. That in itself, that he had pissed off his boss was one of those feelings that could not be expressed in a simple few words. It was a combination of joy, passion, triumph, ecstasy, and down right pride.

Not that he had anyone to tell.

The only thing wrong with him, or his brain specifically, was that he forgot about everything else concerning the slightly spontaneous trip until his feet hit the tarmac. After that last step, right onto the asphalt, it came back. All of it.

The meeting.

_God. _

Case in point why he should not be there.

He was only the helper, as confirmed on several occurrences by the members of the team he was considering ditching (though that may get him killed), he in no way should be expecting a warm welcome. The invitation had been sent more than likely as a courtesy, like a blank christmas card sent to you from the electric company. _Thanks for jumping into an oven (and living), we hope you do it again next year! _Yeah, right.

It's not like a handwritten note, written to him personally without it being opened by the agency and sent with a sticker could mean anything; something that did not require blind force would be special, the invitation was not special. There was no way that it could be.

Impossible; although if he was going to use that as justification, he needed to work at a different agency. He needed different co workers, he needed to be involved with other people than the man who was one of the best agents.

In these moments, he wished he had actually listened to his mother, who had wanted him to be something humble, but grand, such as a doctor. That way he would be helping others, but as well, not be dependent on the chaos that was the ever changing world. He joked that he could go into practice with his brother, that they could open a clinic together or perhaps a law firm, if they wanted to screw people over instead of both knew they were meant to do more than be PHD holders, something more exciting and fulfilling. Too bad they got their wish.

So now here he was, scoping out the bar where they were supposed to converge for pleasant conversation and reminiscing (well at least the others were, he still did not know if he was going), like it was a mission. In actuality, the situation was similar to missions he had been on and helped plan in the past; except now it wasn't a drop off or meeting for intel, nope just a couple of beers. His inner turmoil was still there, but treating it as a mission helped shove that down so he could focus on something more productive than worrying.

Such as escape routes.

How to weave through the tables and get lost in the crowded areas of the shopping district nearby; he already had a few plans, working on number five, which accounted for the temperament of his former team,the amount of people expected during the meeting time, as well as water currents for in case he needed to jump into the ocean.

A few more things were on the list of mindless preparation, including doing a third sweep for security cameras (there were two that could barely pick him up and one that would see him as he sat down) as well as make sure there were no gun carriers, other than himself, in the vicinity, just in case he had to take a hostage. Then there was the small task of analysing the waitstaff and decide if they were shady enough to slip poison into the drinks...

Avoidance was not healthy and rarely did it lead to anything productive, but he was fairly sure that trying to consider any facts regarding the thing at the top of his shit list right now would be even more degrading than the menial and rather easy activity he was doing right now of profiling the small population the surrounding area.

At least he was not driving himself crazy by bringing up the demon that had haunted him on the plane ride almost a month ago. It was not completely going, if he was smart he would have salted and burned the bones to be done with it, but in reality he was not that smart. So if it took taking 'background research' and 'surveillance' to a whole new level to avoid thinking about and bringing up the confusion from before, then he would do it plain and simple.

He had landed in Seattle during the wee morning hours of the meeting day, somehow gotten a few hours of sleep in a hotel before going shopping for something a little less wrinkled and casual. Benji had given him shit about the fact that he had not bought clothes after the mission, in one of the airport stores that had just the right amount of jeans and suits for any occasion, like the rest of them and had instead stuck with his suit. Somehow it had survived a satellite oven, Winstrom, and a bleeding Jane, intact and still wearable. This time, he decided to avoid the comments and just take some time to shop like the manly man he was. Still, it did not take all the time he had at his disposal and that left him with one last thing to do. Unfortunately for him, lurking around the intended meeting place for hours on end was was neither hard nor calming.

With two hours to go until there would be four, not one, confirmed agents in the vicinity, he considered calling 'home' and begging to be taken back. Or perhaps taken out, whichever was faster.

Either way, he really needed a drink.

XxX

_Thank god_ he had left the bar when he had.

Despite the desire to be knocked down drunk, he was only slightly tipsy when the first distinctly familiar face appeared. Intoxication was an easy enough thing to hide, most civilians were capable of it so he damn sure was able with his training, he couldn't remember but they might of even had a class on it in the academy; nerves on the other hand, not so much.

At least not for him.

For the record, he did not fall into the bush, he used his tactical skills to hide; Hunt wouldn't have seen him, not with the darkness, but tell that to his shaking hands. It was only a scan of the land, with glazed eyes, just a habit before sitting down.

It was surreal, watching the man be in the same situation he had been in only minutes before, being served beer by the same waitress, it just served as more evidence for his equal playing field theory that he had concerning himself and the team.

Staying surrounded by leaves was not the craziest thing, nor would it ever be, he had done in terms of surveillance but instead he rose to his feet; it didn't feel right, to be spying, not on him. He leaned against a nearby tree, not caring if his black jacket got dirty or wrinkled, the color would cover it, and watched from afar the light conversation between his superior (their relationship was somewhere between friend, enemy, and fucking kill on sight) and a man he recognized as Luther Stickell.

He really should know more on the dark skinned man, after all he was chief analyst for an alphabet organization, he should know everything on one of their employees; but nothing was coming to mind. Really, it wasn't all that surprising considering his powers of deduction were currently going towards looking at the former team members, and ward, in his sight.

There was no change that he could see, at least nothing noticeable. There were no rings under the eyes from lack of sleep, no crows feet blooming from the temples, no grey hair giving away his age; good thing he was talking about Ethan and not himself, if this was a test, he would have failed in a fiery crash by now. Those were all factors of weakness that could not be afforded in the the field, where youth was needed for the field and the wise few remained in the office; ironically, those factors were considered bad and yet the job caused them. Go figure.

If there was anything different with the infamous copperhead in the distance, it was the smile, the happiest around him. Though, what else could be expected from a man that was out in the world instead of locked in a Russian prison.

Both men were relaxed, as one should be considering they were drinking at the end of a long day, but he knew it was just an illusion. If a gun was pulled, the table would be knocked over in an instant for cover, if the hostile was not taken out immediately or claimed a hostage. Agents, the good ones at least, like those he was observing, did not let their guard down.

Like he had.

There was a laugh a couple dozen feet to his right, obscured by the brush composing the park but still recognisable. It was light, innocent and masculine, three things that rarely went together in his business. The footsteps that obviously belonged to the laugh were faint but never the less coming closer. He could just stay where he was and let the agent find him, forcing him to attend the meeting because really how was he going to bail on Benji? He could just stand there and be sucked into it all; but then he would have to acknowledge that he wanted to be there. And like that was ever going to happen, not when he was flakier than a fucking french pastry on this particular issue.

It only took a moment for the decision to be made and be delivered from the semi functional brain to the parts of his person that were still working. .

_ABORT._

His head snapped up from the lazy position it had been in as he executed plan C, which stood for coward. Back into the bushes he went, completely ignoring the civilians strolling by on a leisurely night walk who were looking at him like he was crazy. _(Well he was crazy on some levels, he was an IMF spy after all. And he was in Seattle when he should be at work right now. But that was another story.) _

Surprisingly enough the agent he was hiding from, who could hurt a fly but wouldn't, did not turn the corner searching for him in a ferocious and precise manner like he expected. Though that was probably because that was what he had seen happen a thousand times in the past, it was logical to expect it he concluded. Surrounded by leaves, he waited for the appearance of the spastic member of the team to appear, while contemplating a very serious question that came to mind.

What the hell was he doing?

Hiding from enemies was fine, and necessary in order to stay alive, but this was his team, former team, whatever. It was Benji. He liked Benji for the most part, though the man did talk just a bit too much. The techie had saved his life multiple times and if he was not mistaken, which it was entirely possible that he was, Benji kind of liked him to. In a friendly friend friendship type deal. He should be greeting the younger man with a weary but nevertheless happy smile, any friend you made you had to keep in the spy game, because they could be going the next day.

He should be standing, walking around the corner to talk to Benji, and stop overthinking what was the situation he was in. Focusing on the facts was his jobs, so what were they? Perhaps this way he could get his head screwed on straight. He was in Seattle, T minus fifteen minutes from the meeting time, and over an hour late for work on the other end of the country.

Those facts were true and he accepted them with no qualms, no double entendres were imbedded within them; just how he liked his facts. That's why being an analyst was so damn easy, natural to him, because the facts were just that, true bits of information that he had to weed through; there were no secrets, no emotions, all that had been taken care of for him. He just had the facts, the faces and nothing that required a soul really; perhaps that was why Dekker was the head honcho.

Emotions made things complicated, messy; which was perhaps why he was struggling with an obvious choice. Going back to the basics was the best thing to do, listen to the simple transmission that was what he wanted, not what he had been taught to do. Not what he had been forced himself to do the last few years, not what his left centered brain focused brain had finally cleared it all away, the memories, the questions, and just given him a simple choice that might just change everything.

Get up and do the sensible thing or hug the shadows and become more of a nothing than he already was. Alright, it sounded more eloquent in his head and less wordy, but in reality that was what he had to do, pick one.

Funny how the most simplistic things could do that, cause a ripple effect and shake foundations at the core. Those types came only a few times in a lifetime, now it was clear that one was going to pass him by. The question was if he was going to act or if he was going to stand as a face in the crowd, watching his own life go by as he had. So many other things had streamed by, leaving him in the dust of the fragile past; why start now?

_Christ. _His brain, though it was a blessing, was a curse in terms of the fact that it managed to hold back everything that complicated so he could see the true issue for five fucking_ seconds. _It really hadn't done anything at all! Although he couldn't be too hard on it, being able to deal with all his bullshit on a daily basis was a hard job. It deserved a break.

He wished he could just turn his brain off.

Because with all this negotiation and critical thinking (and pitiful bargaining, though he would never admit it) , he was digging himself into a deeper hole. He probably would end up at the bottom one way or another so resting one of his most important organs Now he just needed to nail himself into a coffin, a task that would be accomplished in time, he was sure.

The lid made of solid wood was beginning to close, just as the light of the sun was vanishing in favor of the blue night. All this talk of change was just that, talk; worthless in the face of the situation that he was in. People are afraid of change, even if nothing good comes of the current place; perhaps he was more average than the IMF thought him out to be.

In this thinking, surrounded by the dark that came with dusk, with change right about the corner as he was frozen where he was by everything he had been; something tipped the scales in the direction in needed to go in.

The simplest things made the difference; in hindsight he would find this to be true.

His phone rang.

XxX

He had bought the thing on a cowardly impulse, so that he would have a way to call someone, anyone, if needed. It was cheap, disposable, but it gave him a familiar weight in his pocket that shouldn't, but did bring a comforting calm to him.

Thing was that no one should have the number.

Strange was his business, so saying so would be hypocritical of him, but it was _interesting _to say the least. His eyebrows quirked before looking at the lit screen, blandly showing him the mystery man on the other end in a blocky black font.

He was an IMF analyst in a bush, located in Seattle to be specific, irrationally hiding from other agents because of some mental problem he had; why not make it more interesting by answering? More than likely it was Dekker, finally having tracked him down; it was only a matter of time.

Face the music or wait for it to blow up in his face? He personally was a fan of the first, except when it came to himself because he had shit that went back to his childhood and he wasn't dealing with that anytime soon.

Shifting for a more comfortable position in his bush, yes it was his, so he wouldn't be poked by sticks, he took a breath and answered.

"Hello?"

In hindsight, that probably was not the best choice. He expected an angry director on his ass about skipping out of town, what he got was something much much _much _worse.

"William Michael Brandt, what the fuck are you doing?"

Little to say, he scrambled. Scratching himself on a few thorns and swearing up a storm, the person on the other side was laughing by the time he was actually on both feet and steady in doing so. When it finally dawned on him that he was not in trouble and for the most part alone, he turned his attention back to the phone.

"I hate you" But he was smiling with what could be described as the manly version of glee, although the question of how the hell did the man get the number was still on his mind.

There was a thick laugh which he was sure was accompanied by a smirk the size of new york "That's a lie, you love me"

It had been years, and yet moments as with just a voice he fell back into the habits that had been buried long ago. hey were both laughing, him a bit more controlled will the other was a moment away from squealing like a girl, though he wouldn't admit it.

Rolling his eyes, his face was graced with a smile, the first for a while, that he was sure mirrored the other man's grin. "Whatever you say" His brain chose that moment to kick back in and interrupt the bizarre but perfect bliss with the obvious. "Not that I don't doubt your skills, but how the hell did you get this number?"

"You're not the only one who has friends in high places, especially those that can hack security cameras, although it's really not that hard since he owns them" The last part was mumbled, which he was glad for, that was probably a whole other bag of cats that he didn't have time to deal with right now.

His head swiveled, looking around because he was pretty damn sure he had scouted all the cameras and...oh. He looked straight up and sure enough, there was a 'star' that did not belong much with the others. The pictures covered square miles at a time, meaning that the pictures couldn't be all that clear. "You always did have a good eye" He murmured into the receiver before waving just for the hell of it.

"Damn straight, now stop moping and get your ass to that meeting little brother" He rolled his eyes and took a breath, steps carried him closer to the water's edge as he gazed across the glittering sea. His back was to the scene, the bar, that he was supposed to be apart of soon.

"Clint..." The name was a breath, communicating much but not everything. Even with the closest person to his heart, his twin, it did not seem possible to say everything to explain it all. It only made sense to him in an complicated drunk way; even though he truly wanted to tell him why he could not go, it did not seem possible.

"I know. How about we meet up after this and catch up" The last part was tempting but the first the single most important thing he had heard thus far in the day. Even though it seemed completely and utterly improbable just the idea that someone had any idea of what was going on was the biggest security blanket he could ask for. It was more perfect delivered by the one possible of being in such a position.

HIs throat felt dry, something he knew no amount of swallowing his own saliva would help, so he just took another breath "Sounds good, how about we do it now?"

There was a sigh and more than likely an eye roll that came with the quick response "Willy I know you're afraid of the dark when I'm not there..."

His forehead creased and his eyelids fluttered as his head shook. The nickname humbled him but at the same time infuriated him that his brother was bringing that shit up right now "Fuck you"

As if he had not spoken the insult, he was ignored and the sentence went on "...but trust me when I say that this is important. Go"

The last word had more emphasis than anything else that the man had said and any argument against attending the meeting was quickly fading. He trusted his brother's judgement, most of the time anyway because god knew that Clint had pulled the most stupid shit out of the two of them; the decision was made.

He was going.

Although that didn't stop him from asking one more question. "You still didn't tell me how you got this number... "

"Ah ah ah, no questions! Nat's stalling Dickhead while Coulson is burying him in paperwork, go drink. The girl looks cute, perhaps go hit on her?" In the back of his mind, he wondered who the mentioned were, because he could've sworn he had heard of 'Nat' before in their last call, but he shooed it off in preference to the the question of: Jane was there? Not surprising considering that she probably arrived with Benji. But at the same time, ew.

"CLINT!" He snapped, outraged to a point due to the fact that he knew his brother was not kidding. They were both capable of charming any woman, as per their job description called for, but he was more conservative and spent most of his time in high school covering for his older version who snuck into the house in the early hours.

"What? She is" He could almost _see _the natural shrug of the shoulders more toned than his own that would come with the reply; that's what happened when you typed more while the other was fluent with a bow.

Resisting the urge to slide his fingers along his temples, he just took a step or two to the side and whipped up a response, although it was never going to end. They were both extremely hard headed; it wasn't going to end until one of them stepped down, which was unlikely."She's like a sister"

"Your point?" Good thing he liked the banter with his split image or this would get old fast, the absolute sheer _idiocy _before him, figuratively, as once again his brother ignored everything else and focused on himself. Perhaps Clint was just trying to keep his mind off of everything, distract him; if so then he was damn well doing it. Taking that into mind, he appreciated it, but then there was still the fact that he had to deal with the goofball on the other end.

Words failed him, so he reverted to a drawn out "Duuuuddddeeeee"

It was not the most intelligent thing that he had ever said, but whatever, he did not need intelligence when talking to his dumbass of a brother who he loved dearly despite the fact he truly was an idiot at times. There was a snort on the other end followed by a series of chuckles that he was sure was Clint trying not to laugh hysterically and roll on the floor where the fuck he was.

Closing his eyes and shaking his head he cracked a smile, because this was the fucked up normal (for them anyway) that he missed. The only hint he had had was with the team, which made his resistance that much more bizarre. Perhaps he believed he did not deserve it.

The arguments were varied in his head, but the basic idea was that gratitude, on either end, was one thing; entitlement on his behalf was a whole other story. He did not deserve them, his team. Entitlement for them to care about him, there was none. They did not care about him. He was just another agent, another person among the countless that had secrets. He was not included in their super secret boy band, his presence was not needed.

Looking back, all of that could be dismantled and blow away by the simple fact that he HAD been contacted about the meeting. They wanted him and that's all that mattered.

"You okay bro? You've got that constipated look on your face again, you must be thinking"

"Shut up" Is his automatic response and just for the hell of it he flips off the sky; something must be funny because there's another smothered laugh.

"Whatever you say Will, now get going, the chick and whoever she is with seem to be getting reckless. Tsk tsk, keeping them waiting, shame on you Agent Brandt" He'd swear in open court that his brother was a black woman in a white man's body with the amount of sass in that statement. He could see it now, the hand on the hip as a finger was wiggled in his face.

"I'm going, I'm going!" He waves dismissively in an upward direction and turns back to face the view of the bar. The sea at his back, he takes a few steps forward in a slow manner, wanting to stretch out the call as long as possible.

"Riiight" It's almost like the word comes from beside him, from a real person a foot from him leaning in to tease in his ear, instead of over the phone. He smiles but rolls his eyes all the same.

In fake outrage, his voice spikes higher than usual; he wonders if Clint can see the gleam of a spark in his eye "I was!"

"Liar liar, your pants are so fucking on fire"

He sticks his tongue out, there's a roar of laughter in his ear. He treasures it and soaks it up for the inevitable time in a straight jacket he will have to endure after the night is over. It won't be exactly like Cinderella per say, but his clock was going to run out and the evil witch of the west was going to be on his ass.

"And that's _exactly _why I am the older one" Smartass, his mind supplies as a mental comeback; which he ignores in favor of a scoff.

"Psh, you're only older by a minute"

Now he imagined the pink tongue pointed at him, proving how immature he is, how much they both are, by doing so and he grins, barely keeping in a laugh. "Still older"

He's almost around the corner now, to where he can see the faint figures of two other agents appearing. The sleek lines that define a more feminine shape, as well as the slightly defined, sharply cut signs of a certain techie's shoulder line. They are nearly the same height, though that was because she was wearing boots that gave a few inches while he sported flats. He could not see their expressions but Benji was definitely fidgeting. His brother was right again.

"You're doing the right thing"

The words almost catch him off balance, almost make him freeze in step; but he keeps moving, his brain keeps working, and all that happens is that his head bows momentarily.

If Clint were here their foreheads would be pressed together as the ultimate sign that the other was there. Hands intertwined, this is how they would stay for hours at a time, just the hum of the others heart against the rage and the screams that was their parents' fighting. Eyes closed, this is how they had been beside their mother's grave after the funeral. The cool air ghosting over them but they stayed. This is how they were when one was on the edge.

He does not speak of the statement told to him but instead just skips over it; recognition is not required. Clint knows.

"When are you going to visit?" If the other man notices the softness in his voice, the desperateness, then he doesn't mention it as he replies.

"Soon, because I have to prove that I can drink you under the table" The teasing is back, but with more fondness because they both know the conversation is a minute tops away from ending, something neither want.

"Bring it on Eastwood, still sore about last time?" He challenges to the heavens with the appropriate motions before winking with no doubt that Clint has not missed a beat.

"You're on, see you soon" The grin on his face is one that he is sure will never go away, even if Dekker tries to sew his lips shut.

"Promise?" It's a childish thing but as he turns the corner, and is seconds away from being spotted by the team, he wants it to close the deal so there is no doubt.

"Cross my heart and hope to never die"

He closes the phone just as Benji spots him, the fingers stop tapping and there is an almost childish grin that comes to light. He's engulfed a moment later by them both, hugs and all, and there is no doubt that he wants to be there.

No regret to leaving DC and that asshole behind. No regret is landing and refusing to flee automatically. No regret in answering the phone. No regret in sitting down at the same table as Ethan Hunt, who he failed. Nothing.

No regret, period.

XxX

A few hours later he gets another call, this time he does not scrutinize and squint at the glossy screen and insteads answers knowing exactly who it is.

"Now was that so bad?"

He does not even dignify that question with an answer and instead just 'hmmms' in reply, hands still curled around phone in his pocket. It was his future, a bright one that did not include him watching his back and waiting to be stabbed in it.

"_Shit" _

Then his attention is back on the voice, the strand of sanity that had brought him back, as the mood change shifts through his body and his steps slow. He only listens, because he knows from years in the game that speaking is one of the worse things he can do. Clint will speak to him, he trusts him, speaking will only lead to panic which ten out of ten times makes things worse.

He waits for a moment, which is really all it takes, until the voice only slightly more animated than his own speaks again.

"You've got about an hour before IMF agents are on your ass, sorry" It's bitter, a personal failure in his brother's eyes that he couldn't be protected longer or indefinitely as his brother had promised in their first years.

He shrugs even though he knows the cameras aren't on him now and that it is not visible to anyone but him "You held that bastard off as long as you could, I'll be at the airport soon"

"I've been told to tell you quote, that there is a "ticket waiting for Agent Brandt" " He can see the air quotes from here and he appreciates the sarcasm slightly leaking through even though the situation sucks.

"Wouldn't expect anything else" His voice is calm because he knew this was coming, he had been doing damage control since he stepped off the goddamn plane that morning, he was ready so screw Dekker. Though he did have a question "How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as Croatia but worse than Budapest" A wince came from his throat as his face scrunched up to mirror it; he was relieved but he had heard about Budapest. Nothing he hadn't expected from an angry senior agent, but STILL...

"Ouch" Yeah, that was an understatement.

"Do I need to plan for an extraction?" It's dead seriousness in his voice which reminds him why he loves his big brother but also fears for his safety a times.

"No..." He barely gets a word in edgewise, which is actually a record considering the past. He needs to stop this now before Clint goes off on one of his batshit insane plans.

"Fury will harbor your ass because he hates Dekker as much as the rest of the world, so that will buy you a week..."

Too late.

"Clint" By this point his brother is rambling and strategizing at the same time, which actually is a hard feat to pull off; to sound like a maniac and a genius at the same time.

"...until we can get you transferred over to S.H.I.E.L.D and then we will just have to make sure that you don't get stolen back..."

"Clint, brother of mine"

"...or we could just overthrow that bastard in the first place, probably more effective in the first place. Nat's in, Maria would do it for kicks, and Coulson will make sure we don't kill ourselves..."

"Oi, arrow boy"

"...perhaps I can drive the new plane then we can just drop in and be like WE CLAIM THIS MAN IN THE NAME OF..."

"CLINTON FRANCIS BARTON, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The voice falls quiet and he takes a breath before rolling his eyes. After a moment for his brother to collect himself, because dammit two can play at the full name game, he decides to put the insecurities about his well being to rest for the night. Because even though Clint took their father's name, the risk being too high for them having the same so he took their mother's, the strength only extended so far.

"I'll be fine. The worst thing he can do is fire me..." The words are stringing together as he goes along, a change from his regularly planned out thoughts, but apparently it's not fast enough to stave off an interruption.

"We both know that he can do worse than that" He acknowledges the truth in it, having seen it right before his eyes, but pushes past it for not only his sake, but more importantly the other man's.

"I'll call you when I get a chance" It's the best he can offer at this point because he does not care if his phone privileges are indefinitely suspended, he will make a phone out of a banana and a metal hanger if he has to; he is calling his brother.

"Screw that, if I don't hear from you in a week I am busting down the damn door to the IMF" There's the dumbass gene coming out again, he groans before resisting to rub his temples.

"Don't" It won't make a difference but at least there is a moment he can testify to later in which he tried to stop the idiot.

"I'm good for it"

He knows. By the tone coming through, Clint is ready to do that now and damn will follow through. You can saw what you want about his brother, but he was no fucking coward, especially when it came to him.

He's hails for a cab, waiting as one, two pass him by before the third finally stops. It comes to the curb as he finally responds.

"I love you too, I'll call you"

There is a lull of silence, a moment that he knows neither of them wants to break especially not the elder. The words are being cataloged, stored, and remembered so that if another time does not come they have today, the present. Now.

He slides into the cab and mouths 'Airport' to the driver, who looks at him funny but says nothing. The door closes at the same time the response comes to where he silently curses while straining to hear.

"You better call you little shit"

The call ends, he grins.

They pull away from the curb.

XxX

Emotions made things unfocused, blurred, and perhaps smeared to where the world was more than numbers and faces, more than black and white, harder to bear; but there were times you needed to face the ghosts, now would be it. He would no longer hide; he was happy he had went, proud to have smiled with the others.

Guilt no longer weighed his chest, making it hard to breathe, and as he climbed the stone steps of headquarters he did not feel intimidated by the looming building and the man who awaited. Glaring at him through the tinted windows, he knew what was just inside the doors, he knew without seeing the stares of pity coming from the other agents who he had left behind a few hours go. He knew and he did not care.

Invincibility, as he had formerly said, was nothing but a state of mind. Nothing was indestructible, nothing lasts forever, and nothing was perfect. But since everything else had been tipped on it's head, his ideas followed suit.

His shoulders were not bowed, not hunched over in cowardice; he was not afraid.

Nothing could ruin him.

"Well Agent Brandt, what the fuck were you thinking?"

Not even a certain asshole.

"I obviously wasn't sir, my apologies" In truth he had not been thinking when boarding the plane, so he was not lying, which was good because Dekker looked two seconds from bursting a vein and strapping him to a lie detector. Whichever came first. He wasn't trying to be a smartass with the comment, truly, but obviously it did not come off that way.

A file, which he assumed was everything on him from the last twenty four hours give or take, was slapped in front of him, but he gave it no attention. Instead he favored staring, perhaps even glaring, right into the brown eyes of his superior, as was the polite thing to do.

"You disobeyed my direct orders and..."

"My apologies, but I received no official orders, therefore unaware I disobeyed them. Perhaps it was just a big misunderstanding Mr. Secretary" He was only telling the truth, but if looking like a smartass was part of it while being completely truthful, then he perfectly happy with the polite tone he was taking with one of the most powerful men in the world. He was doing nothing wrong except pissing off Dekker, but thankfully that was not against regulations, not yet. If he was fired then he could sue because he had been nothing but a model employee.

His attitude, bring it on.

The big shot himself gave him the stink eye, which had no effect, rubbed his temples before taking another road.

"Why were you in Seattle?" He stood still as the shark circled, the feeling of eyes on him having no effect this time around.

"I was there by request of my superior Agent Hunt to attend a meeting in regards to Mission Ghost" He was frank and polite, never faltering or wavering.

It had been named such by the agency, post finish of course, due to the fact that they had actually pulled it off with a Ghost Protocol in effect. It was unprecedented and had been theorized to be impossible, wrong agency for that shit thank you very much. The name was impromptu, a bit obvious, and perfect.

"What was discussed?"

_Like you don't already know_, he internally snarked before thinking of a response. Really, he did not want to take this bullshit, but sometimes saving face was the best idea when you had none left.

"Not much, for the most part it was celebration for a mission accomplished sir" He barely blinked, though the memories of the weight being lifted made his confidence soar. He accepted Dekker to stay on the same course for a bit longer, though he really wasn't all that surprised when the subject matter was changed.

"It was recorded by our databases that you made two calls, one ten minutes long and the other five minutes, to an Agent Clint Barton, is that true?" His jaw barely tensed, the faintest warning of what would come if his brother was involved.

"Yes sir, although Agent Barton was the one to initiate contact on both accounts" They both knew the other knew that detail already, no use in trying to hold it back. He was on the defensive, but there was no way in hell he was keeping something that would give Dekker amo for the next round.

"You are aware that the contact breaks the terms of your signed contract to this agency?" He could hear the smirk in the man's voice, as though he had been caught in a trap.

"Yes sir and I am fully welcoming of the consequences of those actions" His head nods while saying this statement, his entire body thrumming and repeating the words. He would take a beating if it meant seeing his brother, though his twin would not approve.

"Is that so?" It's playful, a tone he has never seen from the agent before him. It did not scare him, but it put him in a state of uneasy. He swallowed, took a breath, and stood steady awaiting the inevitable kill shot.

"Because from what I've heard, all Barton is good for is as a crack shot. He is a foul mouthed fucker with an attitude problem and is barely worth the training spent on him with more trips to the psych ward than SHEILD likes to cough up to. Broke his arm a couple years back and was worthless, but I guess you just feel sorry for him Brandt. How anyone could be around a broken shit like him is beyond me..."

"He's my brother" His eyes were narrowed, jaw tensed, lip snarled as he glared fiercely ahead of him. The three words came out softly but firm and aggressive. The agent, who had been pacing the room and barely heard what he had said, came to stare him eye to eye.

"What did you say?" He was happy to repeat it, with a little bit of alteration of course.

Setting his jaw straight, with his fist curled in love and fury, his eyes glared to pore holes as he stated what the man wanted to hear.

"He is my brother, so shut your goddamn mouth before I bust in your teeth"

His right arm, the infamous Brandt right hook, tensed to prove that point as he leaned in closer. The given dimensions of his body, his height was no qualms as he stared up with the pent up aggression of a tiger held in captivity. No one insulted, fucked with his brother except for him especially someone who deserved the privilege, though it did not seem it, that it was.

The shark slit it's eyes and glared right back, something he ignored. He was not backing down to some half shit wannabe Secretary who couldn't even fuckng run the IMF properly, espeically not one who read his brother's file out, skimming over every good thing, like he fucking understood a damn thing that had happened to Clint, to either of them. That was not tolerated, although apparently Dekker did not see his point of view.

"You make one more move Brandt..."

"And what, you'll fire me? Go ahead, do it" It was a challenge, one where those godforsaken Barton genes came into play. He was shorter than the other man but he stood tall because he had no reason to back down, nothing to lose.

A sick smile came to the other's face, causing his senses of danger to go wild. "Make one more move, other than getting the fuck out of my face, and I will strip Agents Carter and Dunn of their ranks and send them back to the farm where they should of gone in their first place."

It hardly made him falter, at least not on the outside, though he was screaming on the inside. No, No, NO! But then the man kept talking, making the curse of 'can it get any worse' true even though he had never said it.

"Make a move, take a breath that I don't order and I will find Agent Barton, strip him to the bone, put him through a couple dozen rounds with our best interrogators, and shove him in the deepest level of hell I can find"

His eyes went wide, his body tensing at the idea of putting his support system, his everything at this point through something like that. Even if it was a bluff he couldn't, he wouldn't. No. He did not care if he was youngest, the baby, he would not let something happen to any of them, not Clint.

"You can't..." Apparently something escaped his mind during this process of horror sinking in, his eyes screwed shut to try and forget. If only.

"I am the one with a direct line to the president, not you, not Barton, and especially not that pirate fucker Fury; I can do whatever the fuck I want. I can break your brother and I will" He said this a foot from him, where the sentence was only a whisper but a foul scream that came with a silent laugh that tore into him like knives.

It all sunk in, in a fashion that he assumed was a bit like a near death experience; all the memories came back, the good, the bad, and the future that he wanted. Dekker would do it, he was capable of it he knew. The dark sky from only hours ago shined back, the electric light just a bit different telling him that his personal guardian angel was there looking after his ass. Smiles and laughs echoed and he swallowed it all down, even his pride.

He took a step back.

XxX

He goes back to his desk, does his job, and doesn't call his brother.

The agent with him at all times makes sure of that.

XxX

Let the record show that if in the future he was found covered in blood, it was possible that it would be his. Then someone would win the office pool Dekker had started, of when he would snap and just give up.

There, wherever the smallest thing would have delivered a blow to the crumbling defenses and finally had the support system fall, he would have a smile on his face. Not hysterical or maniac in shape or form, but instead just a surefire sign that Agent Brandt was not there right now.

That he had snapped back to simpler, sweeter times that included nothing of the last years. Because even if his life had somehow gotten better in some way, like knowing that he was not completely alone even though he would never see said fellow agents, dare he say _friends, _again, there was still the fact that the path that he was on would never change. He would still be stuck in an office, with a dickhead boss, when he wanted to be in the field. With his team.

So when it all came to a head, finally falling down around him, the smile would not be of pleasure or happiness. No, it would be of pure joy, because then he would know that it was all over for him and that he knew it. It was all over.

The blood that would be on his hands, it was possible that it was his.

More than likely though, it would be Dekker's.

Because if he was going down, he was taking that fucker with him.

XxX

**Reviews? Please and thank you! **

**Original Idea/Self Imposed Prompt/Summary for the Chapter: **He never told them that he was planning on skipping the final team meeting. That he was forbidden to go in the first place. That he had flown there just to disobey orders, not because he wanted to go. He never told them that he planned to fly back to DC and return to his desk - that he was going to crawl back to Dekker, who hated him, because he was a coward. - instead of facing them. He never told them that he came, risked the wrath of the new Secretary and his sanity, because he felt like he owed them that much. - Especially Ethan. He doesn't tell them that he went to defy Dekker, to show that he was the Chief Analyst dammit and one of the main reasons the world was not in a nuclear holocaust at this point, even if it cost him his job.

**AND: **The Clint idea was thrown in at the last minute because I love Hawkeye. Hoped it worked ;)


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